Phantom asked, his voice low and sharp, "Why and how are we going to take revenge against them?"
Ryan answered calmly, his tone measured but cold. "By returning every single item from the auction. Once that happens, the world will turn on the Lords of that entity. Their empire will collapse under its own betrayal."
Phantom crossed his arms, shadows flickering around his silhouette. "To take all the items, we'd need to bypass their security net. That's impossible. If it weren't THEREE, I'd have already cleaned the place out."
Ryan's eyes narrowed, gleaming faintly under the dim light. "Just because the front door's locked doesn't mean there isn't a way in."
Phantom's brow furrowed, gears turning behind those cold eyes.
At that moment, the door creaked open. A figure stepped in—Artisan, a young man barely past twenty, dressed in tattered linens that betrayed his humble roots. Yet his presence spoke louder than any title—measured steps, steady hands, and eyes that shimmered with an eerie clarity. A creator of tools and breaker of locks. Not born into greatness, but forged by skill.
Phantom floated off the floor without a word, hovering midair like a spirit drawn to war.
They had twenty-four hours before the auction began.
The plan was precise and dangerous. Ryan would start chaos—draw every eye in the building toward him. Meanwhile, Artisan and Phantom would infiltrate the vault and extract every artifact within. Outside, Maya and Ryan would await the signal, ready to sweep them away under the cover of distraction. If all went according to plan, the Black Auction would be erased—its legacy reduced to ash.
That was the mission.
Three hours before the event, Artisan and Phantom stood before the auction complex—a monolithic fortress of stone and steel, freshly carved into the landscape like a monument to greed. Arcane glyphs pulsed softly across its surface, casting pale blue light into the rolling fog that wrapped the building's foundation. The place looked less like a building and more like a temple built on the edge of two worlds.
Above the gates, magical seals flickered like living sigils, interwoven with high-tech surveillance. The air buzzed faintly, alive with arcane pressure and the clinical scent of clean metal.
Security had doubled.
Then Ryan made his move.
He staggered down the main road like a drunk caught in a dream—muttering nonsense, swinging his arms in wide circles, colliding with trash bins and walls. His act was chaotic, convincing. The guards tensed, then surged toward him in alarm, voices raised, hands on weapons.
That was the window.
Like phantoms born from the mist, Artisan and Phantom slipped through a narrow side passage, their steps silent, their outlines blurred by the shroud of shadowcraft.
Behind the building, Ryan was shoved roughly into a dumpster, his ribs stinging from the impact. He groaned, brushing debris from his coat. Everything depends on them now, he thought, settling into the rot and dark to wait for the call—for Action.
Inside, the air was different—dense, silent, and charged. The hallway walls were polished obsidian veined with glowing etchings, and the floor bore faint echoes of long-dead footsteps. Phantom and Artisan moved like mirrored ghosts. One was made of silence and smoke; the other, of focus and faith.
Though they walked side by side, they were opposites.
Phantom—trained in the forgotten arts of vanishing, whose footsteps never echoed, whose fingers could pull secrets from stone.
Artisan—guided by a moral code, a craftsman of the impossible, whose magic hummed through his fingertips with quiet certainty.
Phantom watched with guarded awe as Artisan leaned toward a glowing lock. A single hum escaped his lips. Runes dissolved. Mechanisms clicked open like unfolding petals.
So that's why they call him the Artisan, Phantom thought. He's not just skilled. He understands the will of things.
At last, they reached the vault.
The door parted slowly, revealing a chamber bathed in blue-white glow. Gold gleamed like sunlight trapped in metal. Jewels sparkled atop engraved altars. And in glass casings sat scrolls etched in forgotten languages, vibrating faintly with unspent power.
But something was wrong.
The air was thick. The room pulsed.
Mystic runes etched into the floor lit up beneath their feet, reacting to their presence. The relics shimmered, untouched but aware. An enchantment hung over everything like a breath held too long.
Phantom stopped. "Don't touch anything. Not yet. Break the spell first—or we'll all be ash."
Artisan nodded, eyes narrowing. He began tracing the runes, whispering in a tongue older than the room itself.
Phantom stood guard, crystal pressed to his palm. "Ryan," he whispered, "we're stalling. We need a new exit plan. Fast."
Outside, Ryan lurked near the corner of the alley. The silence broke with footsteps.
Guests had begun to arrive—their voices echoing down the ancient halls. Robes, suits, ceremonial weapons. The guards returned to their posts. Pressure thickened.
Then Maya struck.
She charged the street like a comet of flame, fists wrapped in fire, her battle cry splitting the air. Her magic burned crimson, lashing like whips across the cobblestone. Guards scattered, caught off guard by her sheer force. The chaos escalated. One of the bosses stepped out.
Boris.
Stoic. Brutal. Old blood.
He emerged to confront her—and at that moment, Maya vanished into smoke.
The signal had been sent.
Ryan bolted into the building, fluid and fast. He reached Phantom and Artisan just as the last rune broke. Without a word, they sprinted for the exit.
But then—
Balik.
A presence that stole the warmth from the room appeared near the vault—brows furrowed, scanning, searching. A high-ranking enforcer, his instincts sharp. They froze.
They couldn't take him. Not now.
They ducked into a pitch-black chamber. Dust stirred under their feet. Breath held. Hearts racing.
Ryan's jaw clenched. "I could end this," he whispered. "But if I reveal myself now, everything I've built falls apart."
Then he turned to Phantom.
"Why don't you take your revenge now?" he said, voice like steel wrapped in ice. "He's here. I know where all three Lords are hiding. You could fight them. Win."
Phantom's eyes narrowed. "How do you know I've fully recovered?"
Ryan didn't answer. He shoved Phantom forward.
No hesitation.
Phantom rolled into the corridor—silent, sure.
Balik turned. His expression faltered. Beneath his discipline, a flicker of fear.
A heartbeat passed.
Phantom struck.
The hallway shuddered. A burst of raw power cracked through the air. A flash of silver. A pulse of violet energy split the walls.
While Balik reeled, Ryan and Artisan slipped through a hidden path and dove out the window, landing in the alley with the grace of those who'd done it before.
The night air hit them like freedom.
Ryan glanced over. "Did you set up Plan B?"
Artisan gave a silent nod.
Ryan's lips curled into a slow, quiet grin.
"Then we wait."
And the night held its breath
Ryan sat tall atop the sleek Swoop as it cut silently through the twilight, descending like a whisper of intent. The vehicle glided to a stop outside the Black Auction hall—a fortress of secrecy draped in velvet shadows. Its façade was a blend of obsidian stone and spectral wards, shifting faintly in the corner of the eye, as though reality itself bent to hide the truth within.
Inside, the auction chamber breathed luxury laced with dread. Golden chandeliers hung like ghostlight stars from a vaulted ceiling of midnight glass, their soft radiance casting flickering patterns on the dark marble walls. Every glint and shadow whispered of forbidden power. Velvet chairs, spaced with surgical precision, cradled masked bidders cloaked in silence and mystery.
Ryan, dressed in a tailored obsidian suit with silver trim that caught the dim light like threads of starlight, settled beside Maya. Her one-piece shimmered with a subtle metallic sheen, shifting between hues of onyx and violet. Their masks were elegant, anonymous—like everyone else's. Only the most practiced eyes could guess who hid behind those carefully crafted veneers.
Phantom leaned closer, his breath barely disturbing the air. "Why are we even entertaining this nonsense?" he muttered. "The auction's happening either way. We should cut our losses. Try something smarter."
Ryan didn't turn. "Let's wait," he said simply. "And watch."
The auction had begun.
One by one, rare relics emerged like offerings to gods: a crystal that hummed with ancestral memory, a sword etched with scripts that only the dead could read, a book wrapped in chains that throbbed with forgotten magic. The crowd came alive with quiet fervor. Signs were raised, whispers danced from seat to seat, and fortunes changed hands in seconds—silent wars fought with nothing but eye contact and credit.
Phantom's gaze cut to Ryan. "If you're not here to tear this place down, what then? Why risk being here at all?"
Ryan's voice remained calm, layered with quiet certainty. "I don't want to destroy the Black Auction," he said. "I want to control it."
Phantom blinked. "Impossible," he said flatly.
He scoffed, shaking his head. "You think this place can be taken? This is older than the kingdoms. Deeper than roots. You won't change it in a million years."
Ryan's eyes, invisible behind the mask, narrowed ever so slightly. "It'll happen tonight. Just watch."
And still the treasures came.
A mirror that revealed future betrayals. Daggers veiled in living shadow. A helm once worn by a knight who never died. Then—Ryan's breath caught—a slab of ancient wood, dull and unassuming, but to his senses layered with threads of silent magic. It radiated a quiet might, as if it remembered every blow it had ever absorbed.
He allowed himself a smile. Finally.
An hour passed. The final item disappeared backstage, the gavel struck once more, and murmurs of departure rustled through the room like wind across dead leaves. People rose, their movements practiced, polite. But Ryan stood in Landon's path—a man whose name carried weight in the underworld like a blade.
"This is the chance for Revenge," Ryan said cryptically. "This is the range. Where are you going, Phantom? Now or never."
Landon hesitated. Phantom turned toward him, confusion brewing.
And then the world cracked.
What had been a realm of opulence and calm descended into chaos. The hotel lobby—so pristine, so calculated—became a storm of motion. Crowds pressed against reception, voices rising in alarm. Panic bloomed like fire.
"What happened?" Phantom's voice was tight, scanning the turmoil.
Then the truth dawned, slow and sharp.
None of the relics worked. Not a flicker of magic. Not a spark of energy. Items that once pulsed with dangerous life now lay dormant. Dead. Lifeless trinkets.
Phantom's breath hitched. "No way…"
He stretched his senses. Nothing. The flow was blocked—not sealed or suppressed. Broken. Something had reached into the core of their being and shattered the pathways that connected them to power.
"This doesn't even make sense," he whispered.
The crowd realized it too. Fear turned to suspicion. Accusations flew like knives.
"This is your doing, Phantom!" one of the city's masked overlords barked, storming in with his entourage.
Ryan stood untouched in the storm, eyes steady.
Phantom saw it then. The trap. He wasn't here to ruin the Auction. He was here to force its rebirth.
Phantom's voice rose like a blade drawn in silence. "You think I'd break what I steal? I'm a thief, not a butcher. If I were behind this, I'd have vanished with everything—and you'd be left with nothing."
A beat of silence. Then murmurs. Hesitation. Recognition, even admiration.
The sellers arrived, visibly shaken. "This… isn't all on him," one said. "Stop throwing blame."
Phantom stepped into the moment, his charisma raw and sharpened. "I'm one of the most feared in this kingdom. And I respect the craft. I don't destroy what I value. If this was me—there wouldn't be a single relic left to fight over."
The room stilled. Masks or not, they believed him.
Tension brewed like a storm. The auction bosses flinched, calculating. Phantom's last scuffle with one of them still showed in bandaged ribs and limping steps. None were in shape for a fight—and they knew it.
Then, something changed.
A figure stepped forward.
The man wore a clean-cut suit, mask glowing faintly with soft glyphs. With a calm gesture, he raised a single hand.
From it bloomed light—not blinding, but deep. Warm. It passed through the crowd like a breath of dawn, easing the tremble in the air, stilling the storm in every heart. Not silence, but serenity.
The Power of Peace.
The room froze. Anger thawed. Words softened.
Ryan walked forward. Each step was measured, but carried a presence like a mountain beneath still water.
"Everyone," he said, voice clear, firm, and anchored, "you'll get your money back. Every coin. Payments for the relics will be refunded within days. Stay here in the city—I will make sure these three pay what they owe you. That is my word."
The Sigil of Peace glowed—a golden glyph pulsing like a second heartbeat in the air. Its light held weight. A vow wrapped in power.
And they believed him. Even those who had never seen his face.
It astonished even Ryan. He had not expected the sigil to work—not here, not now. But it did. In this moment of madness, the quiet strength of peace had bound belief tighter than blood.
Some still raised their voices—but no longer in wrath. They asked for balance. Justice, not revenge.
And slowly, the crowd dispersed. Anger melted into weariness. Ryan's steady gaze followed them until only the auction bosses remained.
"What now?" one asked, dry and brittle.
"If you run," Ryan said, "you'll look guilty. Aston City will hunt you down. You won't last the week."
"I can pay," another said reluctantly. "But I want a share."
A heavy silence fell between them—suspicion, greed, and the scent of something new rising from the ashes.
Change.
Real, irreversible change.