Chapter 78: A Glance Through Royal Eyes
The main auction chamber was larger than any gathering hall Isaac had ever stepped into. It wasn't just a space—it was a spectacle. A circular vault carved from ancient obsidian, with glowing runes tracing the domed ceiling, humming with ambient magic. Velvet banners stitched with family crests hung between carved pillars, and armored guards lined the edges like statues ready to kill.
This was no backroom deal.
This was politics dressed in luxury.
Isaac and Lira sat in their assigned private box—more like a shadowed alcove carved into the side of the upper wall. From here, they could see the entire floor below, tiered into rows of marble seats and centered on a raised dais, where the auctioneer stood beneath a spotlight spell.
The first few items had already passed—an enchanted flame dagger (Grade B), a suit of self-repairing leather armor (Grade B+), and a scroll that summoned a fire elemental once per week (Grade A). The prices had ranged from hundreds of gold to thousands.
But now, the tone shifted.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer declared, voice rich with magical amplification, "our next section features relics from pre-collapse ruins—each verified, graded, and sealed."
Gasps and murmurs followed as new items were wheeled in by masked attendants.
"Item one: Runic Gauntlet of the Ashforged Legion. Grade A. Starting bid—1,200 gold."
Isaac blinked. "That's actually worth it."
Lira nodded slowly. "That enchantment's war-grade."
But Isaac's eyes weren't on the gauntlet.
They were on the faces in the crowd.
He spotted the towering figure of a dragonkin with shimmering gold horns—Prince Volmyr, Seventeenth Heir to the Tyranthian Skyscourge Line. Rumored to breathe lighting and politics in equal measure.
Volmyr's expression was blank, but his tail flicked with curiosity.
Next to him, seated in grace beyond age, was Sylvalen Thalara, the Ninth Princess of the Elaraiyan Glade. Silver hair fell in silken waves around her face. Emerald eyes scanned the room with measured curiosity—and lingered on the upper alcoves longer than necessary.
And reclining with a bored sigh two seats to her right: Atheon, also known as the Bastard Lightning—a demigod born from Zeus's indiscretions and blessed with divine sparks and unbearable swagger.
Atheon flicked his floating wine goblet with a finger. "This place reeks of desperation and overpriced nostalgia."
Volmyr rumbled low in his throat. "Says the one who bid on a flameproof cape three minutes ago."
"It was limited edition," Atheon sniffed.
Sylvalen spoke at last, her voice a cool thread of wind. "You both miss the real relic in this room."
The two turned toward her.
Atheon raised a brow. "What, the spiral dagger? The voidsteel vase?"
"No," she said, gesturing subtly upward. "Box twelve."
Volmyr followed her gaze. His nostrils flared. "The dark-haired human?"
Atheon leaned forward, squinting. "He looks... annoyingly composed. Who is he?"
Sylvalen's lips barely moved. "Isaac. Independent. Carries an EX-rank skill."
Both men stiffened.
"You're joking," Atheon said. "An unregistered EX? No domain? No patron?"
"I verified the report myself," Sylvalen replied. "Three sources confirmed it. He destroyed a Spiral enclave, survived cursed saturation, and... doesn't answer to anyone."
Volmyr's golden eyes narrowed. "That kind of power draws empires. Or destroys them."
"I intend to make an offer," she said plainly.
Atheon whistled. "And here I thought I was reckless. You're going to flirt with a walking apocalypse?"
Sylvalen's smile was faint. "Not flirt. Negotiate."
Volmyr chuckled. "Remind me not to get in your way."
Isaac, unaware of the royal discourse, felt a pulse of awareness—Sylvalen's eyes had drifted toward him.
Right toward their box.
She didn't wave. She didn't smile.
But she looked.
And in that single, graceful moment, Isaac knew: he had just become part of a game far bigger than he'd intended.
A scroll fluttered silently through the air—landing on his lap.
He read it.
"I seek audience. If you wish to remain free, then speak with those who would understand your rarity—before others attempt to own it."
No signature. No seal.
But her emerald gaze said enough.
Isaac sighed.
"What?" Lira asked.
"We might get assassinated, recruited, or married tonight."
"…Again?"
"Probably all three."
Down below, the auctioneer raised his hands again.
"Next item! Twinblades of the Forgotten Oracle. Grade S. Once wielded by a mystic assassin whose name was erased from history. Starting bid—12,000 gold!"
The crowd stirred.
Isaac leaned forward, already activating his skill.
[Skill Activated: Armament Phantom – Rank S+]
[Recording Trace: Twinblades of the Forgotten Oracle – Success]
He didn't need to win any bids.
He just needed to watch.
And survive what came next.