No! I don't want to be a Super Necromancer!

Sheila tilted her head as Damien approached, her eyes glinting with quiet amusement. The faint perfume of mana-infused oils clung to her skin—sharp and subtle, like the blades she wore.

"The daggers go on auction later this evening," she said, tapping the black velvet case at her side. "Unless you want them now. One million. Or if you have more Dragonfangs to trade."

"One million?" Fatty nearly choked on his own spit. "No! Nope! We're out of Dragonfangs, thank you very much! Not a crumb left!"

Damien chuckled. "Maybe next time," he said, giving Sheila a small smile. "Way out of my league."

She didn't seem offended. If anything, her grin sharpened. "Your loss."

The lights dimmed slightly on the fourth floor. Velvet curtains shifted. A hush swept across the elegant marble hall lined with enchanted torches and mana-lit pillars. All eyes turned toward the central stage as a single spotlight ignited at the podium.

A man in an elaborate navy-blue robe stepped forward, his presence commanding without a single spell cast. His voice, when it rang out, was smooth and resonant, magically amplified to carry clearly across the entire hall.

"Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests, honored adventurers and venerable collectors," he began, smiling like a seasoned performer before a captive audience, "welcome to the Fourth Floor of the Imperial Serpent Auction House."

Applause rippled through the crowd.

The name alone carried weight. The Imperial Serpent Trading Company was the most powerful trading network in China. With deep ties to the military, aristocratic clans, and international markets, it handled only the rarest, most secure magical items and relics from across the globe. Every auction here was legendary.

"Our company has operated for 312 years," the auction master continued, "and every item on display tonight has passed through five layers of independent authentication, four international customs inspections, and no fewer than three assassination attempts."

Polite laughter spread through the audience.

"And yet," he said, eyes twinkling, "they are here. And so are you. Which means, tonight, luck smiles upon us all."

He clapped once. The lights above the stage shifted. A golden crystal rose from the floor in a levitating case. Inside, a slender spear hovered, wrapped in flickering strands of white flame and wind.

"Our first item: the Stormpiercer Fang."

Gasps rang out.

"Recovered from the ruins of the ancient Cloud Empire in the floating skylands of Eastern Mongolia. This A-Rank spear once belonged to a Sky General of the Azure Phoenix Guard. It has pierced wyverns mid-flight, grounded thunderbirds, and according to legend, it had once split a lightning storm in half."

The crowd stirred. Even those who came for other items were now leaning forward.

"Starting bid," the auction master said with a flourish, "one hundred thousand gold!"

A flash of movement. "One-twenty!" shouted a man from the east wing.

"One-fifty!" barked another bidder in a golden silk robe, his forehead marked with a rare cultivation rune.

Damien scanned the crowd as the auction picked up. The heavy-hitters had begun to reveal themselves.

At the far end, seated with an entourage of quietly humming drones, was Zhao Xianyu, heir to the Titanium Cross Corporation. One of the richest mecha-producing families in the nation.

To the right, dressed in jade robes, sat Young Mistress Lian Yue of the Divine Pearl Sect, known for her obsession with ancient weapons. She was surrounded by no fewer than six masked guards.

On the upper balcony, silently sipping from a crystal cup, was the infamous Black Merchant known only as Mr. Crow. Rumor said he could trade you a dragon egg for a favor—and make sure you regretted it.

Next to Damien, Fatty was already sweating. "I think I just counted six billionaires and two underground legends. This place is stacked…"

The auction master's voice cut back in.

"Sold! To Zhao Xianyu, for two hundred and forty thousand gold!"

Applause. Crystals flared. The Stormpiercer was levitated offstage.

"And that, dear guests, is only the beginning," the auction master smiled. "Tonight, we bring you twenty-eight of the finest relics gathered from across the continent. Some ancient. Some experimental. All rare. All irreplaceable."

"And somewhere among them…" he let his voice drop theatrically, "…perhaps, the weapon that decides the next war."

A murmur of excitement rolled through the room.

The second item was already rising onto the stage.

And the real games had begun.

The first few items passed with gasps and frenzied bidding.

"Aether Gown, enchanted with passive mana recovery, formerly worn by Lady Yun of the Scarlet Peak! Starting bid, 50,000 gold!"

"Warbreaker Axe, recovered from the battlefield of Titan's Fall! Known to split four mana-forged shields in a single swing. Current bid, 170,000!"

"A vial of preserved Wyvern Blood from the extinct Ashback Lineage! Highly volatile, perfectly preserved! 60,000! 70,000! 85,000! Sold!"

The numbers soared. So did the tension.

But then…

An orb was wheeled out under extreme guard.

It was the size of a human heart, swirling with pulsing white mist shot through with ribbons of grey and gold. The orb hovered in a containment field suspended by five layers of protection spells, each one flickering faintly as if uncertain how to react to the artifact within.

The auctioneer adjusted his gloves, tone dropping just a little with gravity.

"Our next item... is currently unclassified. Preliminary appraisals have failed to determine its origin or exact function. Extraction attempts failed. Dissolution failed. Detonation failed. It is flame-resistant, mana-resistant, and nullifies most basic elemental probes. We do not know what it contains."

A hush fell over the auction floor. Even the rustle of silk robes and mana breathers faded.

Damien didn't need to hear the rest. He could feel it.

It was filled with time energy.

It pulsed at him. Not with noise, not with force, but with familiarity. A ripple in the air only he could sense, like a quiet call echoing against the corners of his necromantic core.

"Starting bid: 10,000," the auctioneer announced.

Damien raised his number.

"10,000," the auctioneer confirmed.

Before he could draw a second breath, another voice rang out. Smooth. Confident.

"Twenty."

The speaker was a young man draped in a wine-colored coat, legs crossed, posture exuding arrogance. Two older bodyguards in military black stood behind him, stone-faced.