When I left Hephaestus's forge, the prickling sensation on my back hadn't faded. If anything, it had intensified. Like a fly caught in a spider's web, I could feel danger clinging to me. The one following me wasn't loud, clumsy, or amateurish like the street thugs of Tartarus.
He was a ghost.
His footsteps blended seamlessly with the rhythm of acid rain striking the pavement. His aura seeped into the darkest pockets of shadow cast by the city's neon lights. It was as if he wasn't even breathing.
"Professional," I whispered beneath my mask. Even to my own ears, my voice echoed with a metallic ring.
A normal F-Rank—hell, even a seasoned C-Rank—would never have noticed him. But my [Entropy Eyes] saw the world's code itself. I could see the microscopic refractions in the light of his "invisibility cloak," the subtle, artificial distortions in space, even the cold draft created by his killing intent. He trailed me like a red stain.
I peeled away from the crowded main avenue, from that false sense of safety provided by the river of people. I couldn't take him anywhere near the Auction House—too many witnesses, too many variables.
I needed to lure him into a graveyard with no exits, one where I made the rules.
I turned right, into the Abandoned Silos district.
Even Tartarus had forgotten this place—a labyrinth of rusted metal skeletons reaching toward the sky, left to rot. There was no light. The streetlamps had shattered a decade ago. Only the hiss of leaking steam pipes and the muffled hum of the distant city remained.
I stepped into a massive, hollowed-out grain silo. The floor was a metal grate, and beneath us yawned kilometers of darkness. I stopped and waited.
The shadow behind me stopped as well.
"Come out," I said, my voice echoing through the empty metal chamber. "Your shadow is tripping you up. And I don't like being followed."
Silence.
Just the wind rattling metal plates.
Then, from the darkness, came a soft, mocking, slow clap.
Clap… Clap… Clap.
From behind a metal pillar, a figure glided forward, as if the shadow itself had solidified. He wore matte-black armor that clung to his body like a second skin, absorbing all light. His face was concealed behind a perfectly smooth, expressionless white porcelain mask. In his hands were curved, ominous daggers, their blades gleaming with a green poison.
"Impressive," the figure said. His voice was genderless, altered by magic into a crackling frequency. "You're the first rookie to notice me. Usually, my targets think they're alone right up until their throats are cut."
"Who are you?" I asked, my hand sliding beneath my cloak toward Grim. "Did Draven send you? Or the High Tribunal?"
The assassin let out a muffled laugh.
"Draven? That spoiled prince doesn't like to handle his own problems—and he couldn't afford my fee anyway. I work freelance, little man. And that chip in your pocket with 85,000 Credits on it… that's going to be my early retirement bonus."
So it was just about money.
Good.
That was far easier than dealing with a political enemy or an ideological fanatic. Mercenaries have no loyalty—only ambition.
"Take it if you can," I said, spreading my hands as if defenseless. "But fair warning—money can burn."
The assassin didn't reply.
He vanished like smoke.
[Shadow Step] — a B-Rank assassination skill. A transition from the physical world into the shadow dimension. Even my eyes couldn't track him.
But my senses could.
The very next second, I felt a freezing draft against the left side of my throat. The dagger was aimed straight for my carotid artery.
Normally, my reflexes wouldn't be fast enough. My muscles simply couldn't move that quickly.
But I wasn't reacting to the attack—I was reading its coordinates. Before the strike even came, space had already warped at the point where it would occur.
Now.
I tilted my head slightly—just a few centimeters to the right. The tip of the dagger scraped past the left side of my mask, carving a thin line into the black metal.
At the same time, Grim erupted from my right arm.
The black slime shot forward like a whip, solidified in midair, and seized the assassin's dagger-wielding wrist.
"What—?!" The assassin gasped in shock.
Physical contact shouldn't have been possible while he was in shadow form. Ordinary matter should have passed straight through him.
But Grim wasn't physical.
It was Void.
And Void devoured shadow.
It was darker than darkness itself.
Grim tightened.
CRACK.
The wet sound of a branch snapping. The assassin's wrist shattered. The dagger clattered onto the metal grate below. The figure recoiled with a cry of pain, trying to retreat back into the shadows—but Grim didn't let go. The black slime crawled up his arm, over his shoulder, and around his neck like a constricting vine.
"You…" the assassin whispered. His voice was no longer mechanical—it trembled with raw fear. I could almost feel his eyes widening behind the mask.
"You're not a mage. And what is that thing? It's… eating the mana flow!"
I stepped closer. From the dark glass of my mask, a violet Error-light flared.
"I'm just a writer," I whispered. "And your character is about to be erased from this story. You were very flat."
I placed my hand on his chest, over his armor.
[Dimensional Chaos: Collapse]
Grim and my mana fused.
Space inside the assassin's ribcage warped. His heart was compressed in place, unable to fit within its own dimension—and then it stopped.
The body collapsed.
No thrashing.
No screaming.
It fell like a puppet with its strings cut.
Grim drained the remaining mana and life force from the corpse down to the last drop, then flowed back onto my arm. The tattoo pulsed, satisfied.
[+150 Experience]
[Chaos Reserve: 60%]
I searched the body. He was a professional—nothing on him revealed his identity. Only a heavy black card edged in gold slipped from his pocket.
[Midas Auction House – VIP Invitation]
[Private Box No: 7]
"Nice," I said, turning the card between my fingers. "You didn't just protect my money—you brought my entry ticket. Very generous."
[Location: Midas Auction House – Main Hall]
In the very heart of Tartarus's filth, mud, and misery, a palace rose.
The interior of the Auction House was the complete opposite of the outside world—extravagant to the point of disgust. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, each worth a fortune. The floors were covered in red velvet carpets. Tuxedo-clad servers moved through the hall carrying champagne and rare fruits.
This wasn't a playground for criminals.
It was a playground for kings of the underworld.
I showed the VIP card taken from the assassin to the guards at the entrance. Without a single question, they bowed respectfully and escorted me to one of the private upper boxes. Below, the main hall was filled with masked, cloaked figures—rich and dangerous. Each was sizing up the others, searching for weakness.
I settled into the leather seat in my box, crossed my legs, and focused on the stage.
At its center, standing behind a golden podium, the host—not Midas himself, but his chief auctioneer, a sharply dressed Elf—struck the gavel.
"Ladies and gentlemen, monsters and fugitives! Welcome to tonight's main event! Where money speaks, and power changes hands!"
The auction began.
The first items didn't interest me. A wyvern egg. A forbidden necromancy grimoire. A beautiful war slave bound in chains. Prices soared.
10,000…
30,000…
50,000…
Human lives were just numbers here.
I waited patiently.
And then, item number twelve was brought onto the stage—resting on a black velvet cushion. A fist-sized chunk of rough, silvery-blue metal. It emitted a cold inner glow, as if stars were trapped within it.
"And here is tonight's star!" the auctioneer shouted.
"Pure Starsteel! Extracted from the heart of a crater formed by the Northern Meteors! One hundred percent mana conductivity! Unbreakable! Unenchantable—because it stands above magic itself! In the hands of a master, this metal can bring an army to its knees!"
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Eyes gleamed.
"Starting bid: 20,000 Credits!"
I hit the button instantly. No hesitation.
"25,000!" Box 7 lit up.
A hand rose from the floor below—a fat weapons dealer, magic rings on every finger.
"30,000!"
"35,000," I said calmly.
From the box directly opposite mine, a figure hidden in shadow raised a hand.
"40,000."
The price climbed rapidly—terrifyingly fast.
50,000…
60,000…
My 85,000 Credits, which had seemed like a fortune, were evaporating.
The fat dealer dropped out at 65,000, grumbling as he sank back into his seat. Now it was just me and the mysterious figure across from me.
"70,000," the figure said. His voice was firm. Confident.
"75,000," I replied through clenched teeth. I was nearing my limit.
"80,000," the figure said instantly, without hesitation—like money was nothing more than paper.
My hand froze over the button.
I had 85,500 Credits. If I bid 85,000 and he raised again… I'd lose. And he looked like he would. There wasn't a trace of doubt in his posture.
Think, Arthur, I told myself. You're the writer. How do you win this scene? If not with money… then with knowledge. With cheating.
I opened my Entropy Eyes to their limit and focused on the Starsteel.
I examined its atomic structure, its energy density. It looked perfect. The surface was smooth.
But—
In the lower right section of the metal, there wasn't a crack—there was a density discrepancy. The energy flow warped there. I narrowed my eyes further, peering beneath the layers.
This wasn't pure Starsteel.
It was a Twin Core structure.
The outer layer was pure Starsteel—but the core inside was Volcanic Obsidian. That meant this metal was far less valuable than it appeared. At best, its purity was around 70%. For a blacksmith, it would be far harder to process.
A wide, triumphant smile spread across my lips.
I leaned into the microphone, projecting my voice across the entire hall.
"82,000 Credits," I said.
"…but with one condition. I want to see the metal's Purity Certificate. Because if my eyes aren't lying to me, that piece didn't come from the Northern Meteors—it came from the Southern Volcano. It contains 30% Obsidian contamination. Which makes it alloyed, not pure."
The hall froze.
The murmurs died instantly.
The auctioneer panicked. Sweat poured down his forehead.
"This—this is impossible! Midas's goods are pure! We have appraisal reports!"
"Do you?" I replied coolly, challengingly.
"Then perform a mana test. A simple resonance scan. If it's pure, I'll pay 100,000. If it isn't… this auction house will be accused of fraud—and your reputation will collapse."
The auctioneer began to tremble.
For the Auction House, reputation was everything. If word got out that they sold counterfeit goods, Midas would skin them alive.
The figure in the opposite box lowered his hand. He didn't want to take the risk. If the metal was flawed, he'd be throwing his money away—and if I was right, he couldn't afford that gamble.
The auctioneer signaled the technicians.
A mana scanner was brought onto the stage. It was aimed at the metal.
Everyone held their breath.
The light shifted from pure blue…
to orange.
(Contamination Detected)
The hall erupted with shouts, jeers, and curses.
"Defective!"
"Are you selling us trash?"
"Give us our money back!"
The auctioneer grabbed the microphone with shaking hands, his voice cracking.
"We apologize! Esteemed guests, this… this was an oversight! We will address the supplier immediately! Given the circumstances, we are revising the price. The starting bid has been reduced!"
The competitors backed out. Flawed Starsteel wasn't worth the risk for an S-Rank weapon.
But for me?
For Grim, it didn't matter.
If anything, the Obsidian would grant extra durability and fire resistance. It worked in my favor.
"40,000 Credits," I said.
"And as hush money, I'll forget this 'minor' mistake. Also—send my regards to Midas."
The auctioneer slammed the gavel in desperation.
"Sold! For 40,000 Credits, to the gentleman in Box No. 7!"
I leaned back in my seat.
Instead of paying 82,000, I'd secured it for 40,000.
And I still had 45,000 Credits left—to commission the weapon, feed Grim, and maybe even buy a few potions for myself.
This, I thought, wasn't a robbery.
It was art.
However, as I left the box to collect my purchase, I felt the gaze of the mysterious figure from the opposite box lingering on me—watching from behind the curtain.
I had won tonight.
But I might have also gained a new enemy—powerful, cautious, and very much aware of me.
I took the metal. It was heavy. Cold. And the power within it vibrated faintly.
And now, I was ready to return to Hephaestus's forge—victory in hand.