Jarek stood on the stage, facing the few people who still remained in the hall. They showed no outward reaction, but their intent was obvious. He then turned his eyes toward the VIP glass. Aeren still hadn't moved from his seat—only stared at Jarek and the sword behind him, as if waiting patiently.
Jarek smiled at that.
He understood the message clearly.
Aeren wasn't going to interfere.
Turning back to the remaining challengers, Jarek spoke clearly:
"My dear friends, I can see how confident you all are. You look like people who believe you can take this sword from me by force." His expression remained calm, unblinking. "But let me remind you… I'm not alone here."
The hall froze. Several faces stiffened.
A few gasps rippled through the room as everyone quickly looked around, searching desperately for whatever hidden threat he implied.
And the moment their attention broke—
Jarek moved.
He sprinted toward the sword in an instant, his feet hardly touching the stage. His timing was perfect; not a single gaze remained on him.
Until one man, eyes widening in shock, shouted,
"HE TRICKED US! GET HIM!" The warning ignited the hall. Dozens turned toward Jarek at once, rage flaring violently.
"STOP, YOU DAMN OUTSIDER!"
"DON'T LET HIM TOUCH IT!"
"THE SWORD IS MINE!"
They surged forward, charging toward the stage, every one of them desperate, furious, unwilling to let someone else seize the legendary blade they all coveted. And Jarek raced toward the sword, the entire hall erupting behind him.
Jarek could tell the moment they noticed him. Shouts rose behind him, footsteps thundered across the hall—but it was already too late.
He was only inches from the sword. His eyes locked onto the handle. His fingers stretched toward it.
A victorious smile began to form—
—and his instincts screamed.
Before he even understood why, Jarek jerked his hand back and stepped away from the pedestal. A blade sliced through the air where his wrist had been. If he had hesitated for even a heartbeat, his hand would have been gone.
He exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing as he turned to the attacker.
It wasn't one man.
Six figures now stood around the sword in a wide circle—noble heads of powerful houses, each radiating an overwhelming aura. Their attention was fixed on the sword, not Jarek. They watched each other with deep suspicion, ready to move the instant one of them made a mistake.
Jarek was completely disregarded.
A child.
A nuisance.
One of the nobles scoffed without looking away from the blade. "These days, kids think they can surpass adults… ridiculous."
The others ignored Jarek as well, eyes locked on one another, their killing intent woven tightly around the sword.
Jarek took a step back, observing quietly. Then one of the nobles spoke politely toward the man addressed as Duke:
"Sir Duke, if you would step back, I'll repay you later. Whatever you desire—I have it. Just leave this place to me." His tone was respectful, even warm, but the meaning beneath his words was sharp.
A negotiation.
A bribe.
A desperate attempt to buy the strongest man's silence. And the circle grew even more tense. The Duke looked at the man addressing him, then at the sword behind him.
He had no interest in the blade. He never used swords. His weapons were the bow and the axe—nothing else. He had only come to the auction to show his presence and observe the situation, not to fight for the Relic.
But now, without lifting a finger, an offer had landed in his lap. His gaze drifted toward Jarek. The boy had made an impression. He had dodged the strike of a Marquis-level noble—a feat that required frightening reflexes.
He had also shown intelligence: warning the crowd, clearing the hall, and taking advantage of the confusion to reach the sword first.
He would have taken it too, if not for the Marquis.
The Duke turned back to the Marquis and spoke calmly: "Hmm. Very well. We'll speak again later."
He didn't need the sword, and even if the Marquis took it, the Marquis couldn't use it. Accepting the Marquis's compensation was a far better outcome.
The Marquis bowed respectfully. "I will remember your generosity, my lord. You will receive what you asked for." His tone was polite, sincere, and carefully measured.
The Duke nodded. "Good, good." With that, he turned and left the hall, his two retainers following behind him.
Only four people remained on the stage now.
Each one had witnessed the Duke's departure, and none dared to move. The sword they had coveted moments ago was suddenly forgotten. They all understood the truth: if any one of them made the wrong move, their head would not dodge like Jarek's had.
The Marquis studied them.
He could see it clearly—they knew their place.
Not one of them stepped forward, not one reached for the sword.
Except Jarek.
Jarek still stood his ground, eyes locked onto the blade like a hawk tracking its prey. He didn't blink. He didn't waver. He waited for the perfect moment.
The Marquis exhaled softly, turning his attention fully toward the boy.
"Kid," he said, voice low and cold, "if you leave now, I'll let you walk away unharmed. But if you don't…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
Jarek understood every unsaid threat.
He glanced at the Marquis, then at the two retainers standing behind him. He was alone on the stage—one boy against three high-ranking nobles—but his determination didn't break.
"No," Jarek answered quietly, firmly. "This sword chose me. I can feel it calling me. I won't leave without it."
His eyes remained steady, his stance unwavering.
Marquis William held his gaze.
Neither moved.
Neither blinked.
The pressure between them thickened with every passing second.
A heavy, dangerous silence filled the hall—one born from fear, ambition, and the knowledge that the next moment could ignite a battle none of them were prepared for.
And the entire hall watched, breath held, as the tension climbed higher and higher with their wordless confrontation.
Aeren watched the scene unfold from the VIP room, eyes half-lidded in quiet observation.
Below, the remaining nobles still hadn't given up on the sword. They lurked at the edges of the hall, their gazes sharp—far sharper than Jarek's.
At any moment, they looked ready to strike.
They hid their intentions well, pretending to respect the Marquis.
But Aeren could see it clearly:
They weren't afraid of Marquis William anymore.
All they saw was the sword.
If they managed to seize it before he did, nothing else mattered.
"Aeren, won't you go to the stage? This is the perfect time," Olivia said softly.
She wore a pleasant smile, the same one she had been maintaining since entering the auction hall. Her plan still seemed to be working perfectly.
But something in her expression showed a flicker of unease.
Everyone was losing their resolve.
Everyone was hesitating.
Everyone was afraid.
She expected chaos, bloodshed, and the perfect chance for Aeren to take the sword.
Instead, she saw caution—too much caution.
Aeren didn't look at her.
"Not yet," he replied in his usual flat tone.
He observed the nobles calmly, waiting.
He wanted them to interfere with each other—to create an opening.
He knew he alone could take the sword whenever he wished.
That certainty was absolute.
So he let them act as they pleased.
"Hmm… why not?" Olivia pressed, her brows faintly pulling together.
From the window, she watched Jarek standing opposite three nobles—alone, surrounded, outmatched.
If Aeren went down now, he could help Jarek… or overpower them all… or at least stand a chance of reaching the sword before anyone else claimed it.
But Aeren remained motionless, silent, perfectly composed.
And Olivia, despite her smile, began to feel something she hadn't expected:
confusion.