The first hammer strike had not yet fallen but the auction hall already felt like a battlefield.
"550,000…"
"600,000…"
"630,000…"
"650,000…"
Each bid rose like a drawn blade, sharp and deliberate.
The auctioneer's smile had long since stiffened.
Sweat gathered beneath his collar despite the cooling enchantments carved into the walls.
The ice bead, which was Baston's ice bead, rested on its velvet cushion beneath a halo of soft light.
What had begun as a rare treasure sale had transformed into a duel of pride between two noble bloodlines.
No one dared breathe too loudly.
Baston stood among the common guests, outwardly calm and inwardly calculating.
The higher the number climbed, the more dazzling the profit.
However, the profit born from nobles was never simple.
Nobles did not merely buy. They competed just to show their pride. They marked territory and they remembered insults. Around him, whispers spread like wildfire.
"Who do you think will win?"
"I don't know. Both families are terrifying."
"I've heard of them. The Versance family controls one of the strongest ice bloodlines in the kingdom."
"And the Herbiens? They controls the flare lineage. Their flames are said to burn even underwater."
"Ice and flare in one hall… This won't end peacefully."
"Relax… The auction house won't offend either side. They'll sell at a fixed price and compensate the loser quietly."
"Exactly… No one here wants trouble."
Baston's brow creased.
A fixed price?
So the moment the bid grew too dangerous, the auction would artificially halt it just to preserve political neutrality?
His lips thinned. If that happened, his earnings would be strangled by diplomacy. He had chosen auction precisely because emotion inflated value.
If emotion was suppressed for safety, he would lose the advantage.
Rembrant stood a few paces away.
His merchant instincts were equally tense. He, too, had heard the whispers. His eyes flicked toward the VIP balconies above.
The auction house was backed by nobility but compared to the bloodlines currently competing, they were small fish.
If they were forced to choose between profit and political survival, the house would choose survival. Meanwhile, the bids surged higher.
"800,000…"
"850,000…"
"900,000…"
A murmur rippled through the hall, wondering how much expensive this one final item.
With such numbers, the ice bead wasn't worth it anymore. It already became an expense. Truthfully, this was the price for pride.
"930,000…"
The final voice came from the male VIP chamber. Silence soon followed. The female bidder did not respond immediately. The hall seemed suspended in anxiety.
At last, her voice drifted down, cool and sharp.
"If you want it that badly, take it. I wonder if you truly possess the funds to pay."
A low chuckle answered her, "An amusing concern. However, since the bead is useless to me, I shall graciously allow you to claim it instead."
"You call that gracious? I call it cowardice. Your flare bloodline must be ashamed."
"Rigid ice makes minds rigid as well. I suppose thinking flexibly is beyond you."
The air thickened, "What did you say?"
"Perhaps we should settle this properly."
The auctioneer cleared his throat nervously, "Honored guests, perhaps we…"
"NO!"
Both nobles answered in unison.
The auctioneer could only retreat.
Baston's fingers tightened at his side.
At that exact moment, a faint tremor pulsed against his chest. It was a sign from the old book.
He shifted subtly, ensuring no eyes lingered on him before slipping his hand inside his coat. The cover was warm. He opened it by a sliver and the ink shimmered into existence.
"Stop the argument between two noble families in the auction venue…"
Baston stared, thinking it was just a joke. Just a mere thought of stopping them was deemed of impossible.
Two high-bloodline nobles, fueled by pride, standing atop nearly a million-pound bid.
What authority did he have?
For a brief second, doubt flickered through him.
This was no academy corridor, no classroom rivalry where status could be bent with clever words.
These were heirs of greater bloodlines. Their names alone carried weight enough to crush merchants and minor nobles without effort.
If either of them turned their attention toward him, even by accident, he would not survive the consequences.
His position here was fragile. He was just a guest, a seller, and a nobody in borrowed influence. And yet, the old book did not hesitate. It never cared about feasibility. It cared about performance.
Baston inhaled slowly.
Authority did not always come from rank. Sometimes, it came from control of the stage. And right now, the stage was unstable. He read the quest again. He tried to scrutinize each word from the quest.
The quest said to stop them. The quest said in the auction venue.
His gaze sharpened. It did not require permanent reconciliation, only cessation here. Outside, they could duel, feud, and burn cities if they wished. But within this hall, the conflict had to end.
The bidding war abruptly collapsed as both nobles emerged from their VIP compartments. Gasps rippled and the woman descended first.
As soon as the woman showed herself, many nobles and merchants already knew her name.
Claire Versance, deemed the controller of the ice element. Her beauty was sharp, refined like frost-edged glass.
The silver-blue gown she wore shimmered faintly beneath the chandelier light, hugging her graceful figure with deliberate elegance.
The curve of her chest was full and striking, a natural asset that drew the eyes of many men yet none dared stare for long. It was not merely allure but presence.
She carried herself with composed dignity and even her sensuality felt distant plus untouchable as though wrapped in frost. Her eyes were cold and controlled, rested upon her opponent with quiet dominance.
Moments later, the man stepped forward.
Teres Herbiens, deemed as the controller of the flare element. Confidence radiated from him like heat rolling off molten steel.
His crimson-trimmed coat flickered faintly at the edges, subtle currents of flare mana humming along the seams as if even the fabric acknowledged his lineage.
His physique was tall and well-proportioned, broad shoulders stretching the tailored coat with effortless strength. There was a raw vitality in him, the kind that drew attention without invitation.
They stood across from one another near the podium. The conflict in the air made everyone did not dare to complain.
"Claire…" Teres said evenly, "Will you truly escalate this in front of commoners?"
"I merely expose your hypocrisy," she replied, "You overbid then retreat."
"Better retreat than be frozen by arrogance."
"You are all blaze and no control."
The pressure began to rise. Mana currents twisted invisibly. Even those without magical sensitivity felt the temperature fluctuate. Hot and cold were colliding.
The venue's protective arrays flickered to life automatically.
If they unleashed full magic here, collateral damage would be unavoidable.
The words of quest pulsed in Baston's awareness.
He exhaled slowly. Direct mediation was suicide and provocation was reckless. He needed disruption. It must be abrupt, unpredictable, and plausible. His mind sharpened into stillness before he acted.
No one noticed the subtle flick of Baston's fingers.
Behind the heavy velvet curtain near the podium, a man stepped out.
He was tall and lean, dressed in an impeccably tailored black tailcoat accented with deep burgundy lining.
A silver pocket watch chain glinted across his vest and polished shoes clicking softly against the floor.
Everything about his attire spoke of refinement of wealth, of etiquette, and of aristocratic taste. Yet his face was concealed behind a porcelain clown mask.
The mask bore an exaggerated painted smile, curved too wide to be natural while its hollow eyes dark and unreadable. The contrast was unsettling.
He moved with the grace of a noble gentleman. His posture was straight along with measured steps while his one gloved hand resting lightly behind his back.
Then, he tilted his head just slightly.
The gesture was wrong. It was too slow, too curious, and too amused.
A soft chuckle escaped him, refined in tone yet brimming with lunacy beneath the surface.
He walked casually toward the ice bead as if attending a private exhibition rather than intruding upon a high-stakes auction.
"Why is everyone staring?" the man laughed lightly, "Continue your noble squabble. I'll simply take this."
He picked up the bead. The hall froze upon the intruder.
"Who are you?" Claire and Teres demanded simultaneously.
The man tipped an imaginary hat, "Call me… Joker."
Without hesitation, both nobles launched attacks.
A surge of flare exploded forward and a shard of compressed ice shot like a spear. But in that split second, Joker vanished.
The spells collided with the podium instead. Wood shattered and glass burst. A shockwave rolled outward, making the screams erupted.
Chaos soon swallowed the hall.
"Run!"
"Get out!"
"Don't push me!"
The crowd surged toward exits in blind panic.
Claire and Teres exchanged one look then instantly shifted from rivalry to command. They barked orders to their entourages. Several wizards leapt forward, erecting layered barrier spells.
Teres roared, his voice amplified by mana.
"SILENCE!"
The sound slammed through the hall like a physical force. Many staggered of facing such hidden force.
Even Baston had to crouch briefly, concealing a satisfied glint. Claire stepped forward calmly.
"Do not rush outside!" she commanded clearly, "If this is a trap, fleeing blindly could trigger greater danger. Stay within the protection circle."
Her subordinates formed a defensive dome.
The panicked crowd hesitated but they then complied.
The order returned quickly even though it was tenuous. Baston smiled faintly.
She had done half his work for him.
He extended a thread of control before Joker reappeared.
This time atop a chandelier support beam.
"Very clever," Joker said lazily "I was hoping you'd scatter. Imagine the spectacle if your bodies detonated beyond the walls."
A ripple of horror swept through the guests.
"Explosions?" someone whispered.
Joker chuckled darkly, "Yes. I prepared a little farewell outside. Panic makes such beautiful chaos."
Now, fear shifted direction. Not toward each other but toward him. Claire's eyes narrowed and Teres' flare intensified.
"Seize him!" Teres barked.
Joker flickered again, disappearing before the spells landed.
The nobles were now united in purpose. The argument had vanished. The quest inside the old book pulsed once. Argument had been neutralized within venue.
Baston felt a subtle warmth in his chest. He knew it was not complete yet, but at least, the situation had been stabilized.
He stepped forward slightly, placing himself in front of Rembrant and Panto.
"Stay behind me," he murmured.
Rembrant blinked, "Young master, that man…"
"Father…" Panto whispered urgently, "Baston is stronger than he looks."
Rembrant stared, "What?"
"In my class, he's unmatched."
Rembrant's eyes widened, "Why didn't you say this sooner?"
"He dislikes attention…"
Rembrant slowly turned his gaze toward Baston's back.
For the first time since they had met, the merchant no longer saw merely a clever young man with unusual insight.
He saw composure and stillness in the middle of chaos. That frightened him more than the masked intruder.
Around them, the defensive dome shimmered faintly, refracting fragments of broken chandelier light like fractured stars. People whispered nervously but no one dared to move without permission.
The nobles were no longer arguing. Their hostility had been redirected, sharpened into vigilance.
Baston remained motionless. His breathing was steady and his heartbeat was calm.
Inside his coat, the old book was warm, seemingly satisfied of the performance. He did not smile. He simply observed.
Claire and Teres now stood several paces apart, no longer trading insults.
Their eyes scanned the hall with identical caution. Ice and flare, once clashing, were now aligned against a common threat exactly as intended.
Baston lowered his gaze slightly, hiding the faint glimmer in his eyes.
Stopping the argument did not require persuasion. It required fear. Not fear of each other but fear of something greater. The Joker had served his role perfectly. And yet, there was a subtle shift in the air.
The nobles were not fools.
They would remember this humiliation. They would question how a masked lunatic infiltrated one of the most secure auction halls in the city.
They would investigate and they would search for cracks.
Baston understood that today's performance had consequences beyond applause. The hall no longer felt like a battlefield.
It felt like a chessboard where several powerful pieces had just realized the game was larger than they thought.
For a fleeting moment, Baston wondered.
Had he just made enemies he did not yet see?
The thought did not frighten him. It sharpened him. His fingers flexed slightly at his side before returning to stillness.
In the reflection of a broken glass panel near the ruined podium, he briefly saw himself.
He was small, unremarkable, and hidden among merchants and minor nobles. He was invisible just as he preferred.
Above, the chandelier chains swayed faintly, creaking in the aftermath of magic.
The room held its breath, suspended between order and uncertainty. And at the center of that fragile equilibrium stood two noble bloodlines, unknowingly pulled into alignment by a hand they had never noticed.
Baston did not look at them again. He simply waited.
Because sometimes, the most dangerous move was not the one that exploded.
It was the one no one realized had already been made.