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

Damien barely spared him a glance. "Thirty."

Sheila leaned in slightly from her seat. Her voice was low. "That's Qian Yuze. His father's a colonel in the northern division. Mother runs a trade syndicate in Tianhai. If you want a quiet life in Beijing, it might be smarter to let this one go."

Damien didn't look at her. He smiled faintly, eyes still locked on the orb. "I'm not afraid of trouble."

Sheila blinked, just once.

"Forty," Qian Yuze snapped.

Damien raised his hand. "Fifty."

The room stirred. Conversations hushed. Heads began to turn.

Qian Yuze's smirk vanished. He snapped his fingers.

Immediately, his two bodyguards stepped forward and flanked him more prominently, eyes locked on Damien.

But they weren't alone. Two older men stood from nearby. One wore a full military overcoat. The other had a trade guild insignia on his lapel and the heavy gaze of a man used to delivering ruin. Both turned toward Damien.

No one said anything. They didn't have to.

The message was clear: stop now.

But they didn't move further. Not within the auction house. Not here.

The Imperial Serpent Auction House had its own rules. Rules enforced with brutal precision.

Even Young Master Qian Yuze, for all his arrogance, didn't dare make a scene. His aides could glower. Could posture. But nothing more.

Still, the pressure was heavy.

The auctioneer cleared his throat, trying not to sweat.

"Bid is at fifty thousand. Going once."

Damien sat still. Calm. Not even faking defiance. He simply didn't care.

Whispers broke out across the room.

"That's Qian Yuze he is bidding against… he's really pushing his luck."

"That boy's either insane or has real backing."

"No, look how calm he is. He might be stronger than he looks."

"Doesn't matter. Crossing the Qians is suicide."

"Going twice."

Qian Yuze drummed his fingers. Then gave a cold smile. He didn't raise his hand again.

"Sold! To Number 227!"

The display flashed. The orb vanished into stasis.

Qian Yuze turned slowly, his gaze burning into Damien's side profile. He didn't speak. But the promise in his eyes was clear. This wasn't over.

Damien didn't even blink.

He leaned back.

Smiled.

And reached for the tea beside him.

"Good tea," he said softly.

The crowd exhaled collectively.

The next item was already floating onto the stage. But they all knew the ripples from that moment would last long after the night was over.

The lighting in the auction hall dimmed once more, giving the room a dusky glow. Spotlights rotated slowly to the center stage.

The auctioneer's voice rang out, rich with anticipation.

"Item number eighty-three… a true marvel for those who live in shadow and kill in silence. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you—The Phantom Crescent Twins."

The velvet casing at center stage peeled open, revealing two curved daggers suspended in a containment field. The air shimmered faintly around them. Shadow mana slithered across their translucent blades, flickering like wisps of midnight smoke. Each edge gleamed faintly with pre-blooded enchantment. Each hilt was braided in obsidian silk and inlaid with the glowing symbol of General Yi Lin, the legendary "Silent Blade of the West."

The crowd inhaled.

"Forged from the core of a fallen Shade Elemental during the Night Rebellion," the auctioneer continued. "These weapons channel ambient shadow mana to enhance stealth, kill speed, and precision. The enchantments ensure a perpetual edge, and the blood memory of the fallen general remains imprinted within the steel."

A pause.

"They were once held by the late General Yi Lin, the 'Silent Blade of the West'—hero of the Molten Ridge Encirclement and slayer of the White-Eyed Hydra. Starting bid—five hundred thousand gold!"

That was enough.

Hands shot up like lightning.

"Five-fifty!"

"Six hundred!"

"Six-fifty!"

From the far end of the hall, seated with an entourage of sleek, hovering drones, Zhao Xianyu raised a finger. His expression was casual, but his voice was clear.

"Seven hundred."

Gasps echoed. Zhao Xianyu, heir to the Titanium Cross Corporation. One of the richest industrial dynasties in the nation. If he wanted something, it usually wasn't long before everyone else stopped bidding.

"Eight hundred," came a soft voice, like wind over glass.

All eyes turned to the right.

Young Mistress Lian Yue, of the Divine Pearl Sect, draped in flowing jade robes, sat with elegance so sharp it could cut steel. Her guards stood motionless behind her, each masked and robed, each one silently radiating threat.

She lifted her teacup without glancing at anyone.

"I collect artifacts with history," she said softly. "And ghosts."

"Eight-fifty," said a dry voice from above.

The camera turned to the upper balcony, where a shadowed figure sat reclined in a velvet chair, sipping from a crystal goblet.

Mr. Crow. The Black Merchant. No one knew his real name. No one wanted to. He once sold a cursed phoenix feather to a prince. The prince vanished a week later, and no one asked questions.

The room held its breath.

Eight-fifty. From Mr. Crow.

That was the kind of number you didn't outbid lightly.

Until a calm, arrogant voice rang out from the center.

"One point two million."

Everyone turned.

Qian Yuze, lounging in his wine-red coat, raised his number card with a small smile. His two aides flanked him, stone-faced.

Silence fell.

Even Mr. Crow tilted his head.

Zhao Xianyu raised a brow, amused. Lian Yue lowered her fan.

Qian Yuze didn't care. He leaned forward in his seat, still smiling.

"I've been selected for the frontlines of the European Theatre," he said, letting his voice carry. "If these blades are going to taste blood, it won't be in a vault or display case. It'll be in war. For our country."

A pause.

He let the words settle.

"Of course… if anyone here feels they deserve these blades more than a soldier serving the nation, please… continue."

It was a challenge.

But it wasn't worth it.

Zhao Xianyu sighed and tapped something on his datapad. His drones retracted.

Lian Yue tilted her head, then sipped her tea again, her gaze drifting elsewhere.

Mr. Crow only chuckled and raised his glass.

The auctioneer blinked once. Twice. Then cleared his throat.

"Uh… one point two million going once… going twice…"

A pause. No one moved.

"Sold! To Number 301!"

Polite applause followed. Reserved. Respectful. But not warm.

Everyone understood what had happened.

Qian Yuze had just outmaneuvered some of the most powerful people in the country not with money, but with patriotism. Outright manipulation.

It was a win.

And everyone else had let him have it.

But not because they were impressed.

Because they were watching what he would do next and wondering if he could handle the weight he just claimed.