Aston City
The sky had turned a deep orange by the time Ryan and Maya reached Aston City. The last rays of sunlight stretched across the horizon like fading fire. As they passed through the towering gates, the city opened up before them—grand and alive. This was nothing like the smaller cities Ryan had seen before. It felt like stepping into another world.
Tall buildings reached into the sky, glowing with soft golden light. The streets were wide and clean, paved with smooth stone that glimmered under well-placed lamps. Ornamental trees lined the sidewalks, their leaves rustling in the evening breeze. Every corner of the city seemed thoughtfully built—like it had been crafted, not just constructed.
"Someone really built this place with precision and planning," Maya whispered, eyes wide with wonder.
Ryan nodded but said nothing. He was alert. As they passed the gate, his eyes caught a familiar face in the crowd. He quickly turned away, pretending not to see. Someone else had arrived. Someone important.
It was Saturday night—the night of the Black Auction.
That's why people had come from across the continent to Aston City. To buy, sell, or steal rare treasures. The kind that couldn't be traded openly. The kind that could change fates. Most visitors wore cloaks or enchanted masks, hiding their true identities. After all, this was no ordinary market.
Ryan and Maya headed straight to a nearby inn tucked between two glowing towers. Inside, the inn was warm and quiet. Ryan quickly unpacked a small wooden box filled with items he had collected from the vault and dungeon—old relics, strange stones, and a broken amulet that still pulsed with faint energy.
"Leave them on the room," he said, pointing to the silver metal trunk shaped like a beast. "We'll grab them when it's time."
After a short rest, they left to buy entry tickets and register for the auction. As they walked through the city, they couldn't help but admire the place. Arcane symbols shimmered faintly on the rooftops—warding spells, maybe. Vendors sold glowing fruits, talking scrolls, and potions that smoked inside glass jars. A breeze carried the scent of cinnamon, firewood, and magic.
Then they saw a carriage passing by—and their eyes were drawn to it immediately. It looked expensive, ornate, and heavily guarded. As if an aristocrat were traveling inside. Guard after guard marched behind it, all dressed in fine armor.
The next moment, Ryan and Maya caught a glimpse through the carriage window. A man sat inside, wearing an extravagant suit embroidered with emeralds and crystals. Intricate carvings shimmered on the fabric—an outfit fit for nobility.
Whispers followed.
"That's Boris," someone said nearby. "One of the overlords."
Ryan listened. He learned there were three overlords in Aston City—Boris, Manic, and Ballic. Together, they ruled the city and controlled the Black Auction.
But elsewhere, in that same inn, someone moved like a shadow.
Phantom Liro slipped silently into their room. His boots made no sound on the wooden floor. In one smooth motion, he collected all the artifacts Ryan had left behind. His hands moved fast, yet gentle—like a thief who respected what he stole.
He left behind only a note.
Liro smiled as he vanished into the night. For him, this wasn't theft. This was revenge—for what happened in the dungeon. He didn't forget betrayal. And he never forgave. Stealing was simply his art, and tonight's work was flawless.
Back in the heart of the city, Ryan and Maya had just finished their registration. The auction would begin at midnight.
Everything seemed ready.
Yet Ryan's mind wasn't at peace.
Even as they walked through the magical streets, part of him was somewhere else—inside his body, thinking of his strength. Or rather, his lack of it.
He had the golden knife inscribed with ancient sigils—its magic was powerful, yes—but he knew it wasn't enough. He was still at the Mutated Level, far from reaching Sacred Rank. His enemies were growing stronger, and he couldn't afford to fall behind.
He already ruled two cities. He had a Sacred-level warrior under his command—someone who could crush armies. But he knew better than to grow overconfident. Power in this world could shift in a blink. And Ryan had enemies who would use that blink to strike.
Midnight came.
They returned to the inn—and saw the empty box.
"He took them…" Maya gasped. "Wait, if you knew he'd come, why leave them there?"
Ryan smiled. "Because I wanted him to steal them."
The auction hall was carved into the side of a mountain, glowing with enchanted lanterns. Ryan and Maya wore masks, like everyone else. The hall was packed—rows of stone seats facing a golden stage, and several VIP rooms circling above like watchful eyes.
Among the masked faces, Ryan spotted him—Phantom Liro, sitting calmly in a VIP room, holding a numbered paddle.
Another face caught Ryan's eye—Rancor, a known mercenary with a cruel smile. But Ryan didn't worry. Few people in that hall could threaten him now. He was not here to fight. Not yet.
The auction began.
An elegant woman walked on stage, her voice ringing out like a spell. "Let the Black Auction commence."
One by one, the treasures were shown—swords bathed in dragonfire, rings that could bend the wind, scrolls that sang when unrolled. Bidding was fierce. Prices soared past 200,000 Dinar like it was nothing. A single item here could be worth more than an entire city's yearly income.
Ryan stayed quiet, watching.
His gaze wandered from artifact to artifact as they were brought forth—some glowing faintly, others humming with sealed energy. Each object shimmered under the dim golden lights of the auction hall, their ancient enchantments whispering promises of power. But none of them stirred even a flicker of interest within him.
He already held what he needed—a golden knife resting in his palm, its hilt cool and alive, pulsing with a will of its own. It was no ordinary relic. This blade was forged to transform willpower into raw force, a direct link between thought and destruction. Compared to it, the other treasures paraded one by one felt hollow. Pretty, but empty.
Then Ryan's eyes narrowed.
Among the masked nobles and cloaked collectors, one figure stood out—not because he was loud, but because he was quiet. A man in faded robes, stitched too many times, sat near the front. He didn't belong here—not by appearance. His posture was unassuming, but his eyes betrayed him: sharp, calculating, alive with purpose.
He only bid on select artifacts, those in the modest range of 10,000 to 50,000 Dinar—items that most overlooked. Yet there was rhythm in his choices, precision in his restraint.
Ryan's eyes glinted behind his mask.
That man knows what he's doing.
He had the instincts of a master craftsman, the kind of artisan who could sense the dormant power in forgotten steel or shattered stone. Not wealth, but wisdom drove him.
I need that man on my side, Ryan thought, leaning back.
But he didn't act. Not yet.
The auction surged onward. Some relics sold for over a million Dinar—gasps rippled through the crowd like sudden thunder—but Ryan remained unmoved. His attention never left the man called Phantom Liro.
He was waiting.
Waiting for the moment Liro would rise and step into the open.
Then he would strike.
The final bell rang, echoing like a toll through the grand hall.
Masks came off. Laughter bloomed. Nobles exchanged pleasantries, believing the night's theater had ended. But others kept to the shadows, faces hidden, choosing silence over celebration. Figures of power and infamy.
Maya, ever watchful, scanned the room. Her sharp eyes pierced through fabric and disguise—she saw not masks, but the truths behind them. Lords of war, smuggling syndicates, power-hungry merchants—she marked them all.
Ryan remained still, composed.
The real show was about to begin.
The auction hall swelled with motion. Voices collided with footsteps, and a subtle tension lingered in the air like the calm before a storm. Wealthy winners collected their spoils. Traders tallied their profits. And among them, silent as a shadow, walked Phantom Liro.
He stepped to the reception desk, his token held loosely. Dim lighting flickered above, casting warped reflections on the polished black marble. The receptionist didn't meet his eyes. Her voice was cold and flat:
"Step outside."
Liro frowned. Before he could protest, two guards seized his arms—grip firm, unyielding.
His voice snapped out. "What's going on? Why are you treating me like this?"
No answer came.
Then the crowd parted as if pulled by invisible strings. A figure emerged—his presence announced not by words, but by weight. Power pressed into the space like a thunderhead rolling in.
One of Aston City's three overlords.
Manik.
He wore black battle armor, polished and scarred. Weapons lined his belt—not ornamental, but used. His beard was trimmed short, and his bald head gleamed under the chandelier's fading light. He looked like he'd walked straight off a battlefield and into a ballroom.
Ryan studied him.
Mighty. Prepared. Dangerous... but not enough to stop Phantom.
Manik's voice rolled out, deep and unforgiving.
"Every item you sold was faulty. Useless junk. We pulled them mid-auction—it cost us. Now you'll pay the price."
Phantom stiffened. His eyes flashed—not with surprise, but realization.
Ryan had betrayed him.
Yet this was not the place for revenge. Not yet.
He twisted free and bolted.
But Manik moved with supernatural speed. His gauntlet landed on Phantom's shoulder—then came the explosion.
A burst of raw energy shattered the air. The ceiling groaned. Walls cracked. Glass screamed as it broke. The atmosphere turned electric, thick with mystic force. Dust curled like smoke, glowing with specks of blue light. People screamed and scattered like dry leaves in a storm.
Chaos erupted.
Ryan, unmoved, leaned toward Maya.
"Follow the artisan. Learn everything."
He didn't flee.
He watched.
The earth trembled as Phantom unleashed his full strength, silver energy enveloping his form like a burning second skin. He struck like a tempest—every move a deadly whisper of honed violence.
Then came the second boss—Boris—clad in royal silks over enchanted armor, his entrance flamboyant, his aura cold.
And behind him, a third man entered with barely a sound. His clothes were plain, almost peasant-like, but silence fell around him as his name passed through hushed lips.
Balik. The final overlord.
The three had assembled.
Now, it was war.
Phantom, the thief feared across kingdoms, faced them alone.
Their clash was mythic—spiraling arcs of light and fire lashed through the air. Ancient martial arts clashed with forbidden energy techniques. Stone fractured, floors buckled. Buildings nearby splintered from shockwaves. The sky dimmed, heavy with dust and smoke.
Ryan watched, every motion feeding his calculations.
He had fought Phantom once. He knew his limits.
The thief was strong—fierce, unpredictable—but this was too much.
Minutes stretched like hours. After a long, brutal exchange, Phantom slowed. The silver glow around him flickered. One final strike—a punch lined with sacred energy—dropped him to the ground.
Blood pooled.
The three bosses stood above him, battered but victorious.
They dragged him to the underground prison, vanishing into the ruins of what had once been a proud hall.
Looters swarmed behind them, picking treasures from the debris like vultures over a broken beast.
Hours later, under the pale moonlight, Ryan walked alone through the now silent streets. The smoke had thinned, the fires died. But the scent of battle lingered.
His eyes glowed faintly beneath his hood.
"Now the real plan begins.
The next morning, Ryan summoned his agents with a sharp tone that brooked no delay.
"Get me everything on the auction," he commanded.
The Black Auction would fall. And the three bosses—they'd either bow or break.
From the shadows of Aston City, Ryan began to spin his web. Rumors slithered through alleyways and marketplace whispers, twisted truths laced with fire. Some spoke of betrayal between the bosses. Others claimed the auction had already crumbled.
By noon, the city buzzed like a nest disturbed.
Phantom Liro, once a feared Thief of the Sun Kingdom, had been captured. The final auction site, reduced to rubble. The three overlords of the city—wounded, hiding, helpless. And now, rumors swirled of a Kingdom official en route to claim the fallen thief. The air itself felt taut, as though holding its breath.
Ryan didn't wait.
He fed the unrest, and it bloomed like wildfire.
Crowds swelled in the streets, marching with angry chants and makeshift banners. Their steps echoed off the ancient stone, stirring dust and defiance. These weren't just protestors—they were the voices of a city long silenced by fear. Some had suffered under the shadows of the black auctions. Others were simply tired of bending their knees.
Ryan had no intention of striking with swords—he was wielding the will of the people. He knew Maya could destroy the bosses in open combat. But dominance without loyalty meant nothing. He needed the city to fall into his hands willingly. And for that, he needed chaos to be his ally.
He sowed lies with a smile, twisted truths with precision. He painted the overlords not as rulers, but parasites—feeding on the people, colluding with the underworld. He told tales of how they never lifted a hand to clean the filth from their streets, but readily lined their coffers with coin stained by the Black Auction.
Soon, from noble courtyards to slum alleys, the cry rose: "Down with the Three!"
Revolts sparked in every district. Fires burned not just in hearths, but in hearts. The city guards—outnumbered, disillusioned—watched with clenched fists and unsure loyalties. Law and order dissolved beneath a tide of rage. Aston City began to rot from within.
And Ryan? He simply added more fuel to the flame.
For days, the city simmered in chaos. Order fractured. Hope and hatred mingled like smoke in the streets.
Within a quiet stone chamber lit by soft candlelight, Ryan sat with a boy no older than seventeen—Artesian, a prodigy in the study of artifacts and relics. His fingers danced across ancient scripts and broken runes with ease. Despite his age, he spoke with the insight of a scholar thrice his years.
Ryan watched him closely, noting the gleam of wonder behind the boy's quiet composure. This was no common collector—he was an artisan, in spirit as much as skill.
Without fanfare, Ryan placed a heavy sack of gold on the table.
"You're mine now," he said. "From today, your knowledge serves a greater cause."
Artesian asked a few pointed questions—but there was no hesitation in his eyes when he nodded. He'd already chosen his path.
Moments later, Maya entered, her steps soundless as silk. She leaned against the doorway, her voice casual but laced with curiosity.
"So… what's next?" she asked. "The auction's back Thursday. Today's Saturday. Another one's already planned."
Ryan glanced up. His expression didn't change.
"They'll gather. The auction will begin. But it'll never finish."
Maya raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
Ryan's eyes glinted under the candlelight. "Because we'll steal everything before it begins."
She blinked. "We?"
"No," he said, lips curling into a quiet grin. "Phantom will."
Friday night arrived cloaked in silver mist. The moon hung like a pale eye, watching silently as Ryan approached the gates of the prison.
He knocked once.
A creak. A slit in the gate opened—but there was no one there.
Knock. Again.
Still, no one.
The guard stepped out, frowning. "Who's—"
A blur. A whisper in the air.
The man crumpled, fast asleep before his body touched the ground.
Ryan and Maya moved like wraiths, flowing through the shadows of the prison. Each step calculated, every movement precise. The guards never stood a chance. One by one, they fell to silent strikes and sleeping spells.
Deeper into the prison they went, where the air grew thick with enchantments. Runes pulsed faintly along the stone walls, glowing with ancient seals. In the heart of the dungeon, encased within a cell wrapped in shimmering wards, sat Phantom Liro.
He didn't look up until the wards pulsed in warning. Then, slowly, he raised his head.
His eyes narrowed. "You…"
He lunged forward—but was violently halted by an invisible barrier, which rippled with blue light.
Ryan stood before him, calm as always.
"No one told you to steal what was mine," he said coldly. "You took it anyway. Now, you'll pay."
Phantom's voice was low and rough. "What do you want from me?"
Ryan's reply was like ice.
"Revenge. If you still have the strength for it."
Phantom blinked, stunned. That... wasn't what he expected. In truth, he had no reason to trust Ryan. But locked in this magical cage for a week—alone, forgotten—he had little choice. And this offer, twisted as it was, gave him what he desired most.
Retribution.
Without hesitation, he nodded. "I'm in."
Ryan said nothing. He stepped aside.
Maya raised a hand. Her palm glowed faintly, then erupted in a spiral of silver light. With a single strike, she shattered the seals. The runes shrieked and burst like dying stars.
Phantom stared in disbelief. That kind of power—raw, effortless, devastating—he hadn't expected from someone so quiet.
He stepped forward. His boots touched freedom again. His fists clenched. His pulse quickened.
He could have got the power from the dungeon and not Maya, he could be peak of the sacred level. He could do nothing except for regretting it