"One hundred billion Fehu!"
The host's voice thundered across the chandelier-lit auction hall, slicing through the hum of gasps and murmurs. Silence followed in its wake—an eerie, suffocating quiet as if the air itself had forgotten how to move.
All eyes turned to the man at the center of it all: the King.
Cloaked in velvet crimson and draped with the weight of a thousand secrets, he leaned forward slightly in his ornate seat. A faint smile tugged at his lips, but behind the glint of triumph in his eyes was something else—an unease, subtle yet unmistakable.
"One hundred billion… from His Majesty," the host repeated, almost reverently, hands shaking as he raised the golden hammer. "Any higher? Any challengers?"
Silence.
No noble, merchant, or warlord dared speak.
Even the mysterious man who had once pushed the king's bidding to the edge sat still now, lips curved into a smile—not of defeat, but of knowing.
Thory leaned toward Fen, whispering low. "He really did it. One hundred billion."
Fen nodded slowly, his fists clenched tightly on his lap. "What could make even a king spend that much?"
They both looked forward. On the elevated platform stood the sealed chest—the resting place of the cursed blade. Nidhogg. A weapon carved from the remains of a dangerous monster who gnaws at the roots of Yggdrasil, the symbol of rot. A blade that could tear soul from flesh, and command death itself.
"Going once…" the host declared.
The air in the room thickened.
"Going twice…"
The king's eyes didn't waver. His expression was a mask—satisfied, calm—but beneath it, Thory noticed the twitch of a brow, the slight shift of his fingers. He was anxious.
"Sold."
The gavel struck like thunder.
A burst of applause followed—polite, uncertain, and deeply nervous.
"Congratulations, Your Majesty," the host said, bowing deeply. "A most noble acquisition. Now, as is tradition, the transaction shall be finalized."
An attendant approached the king, carrying a silver device no larger than a book—sleek, glowing with rune-etched symbols. A panel slid open. The king wordlessly placed his gloved hand upon it.
A moment later, the device chimed. The entire room saw it: a spiral of runes spinning in mid-air, marking the transfer of wealth to the banknet.
"Confirmed," the attendant said, bowing low. "The full amount has been received."
The host nodded. "Then, the cursed blade Nidhogg shall now belong—"
But he stopped mid-sentence.
His eyes fluttered closed, his arms spreading like a priest before a sermon. With a breath, he dipped into a low, noble bow. And then, with unnatural calm, he whispered:
"Shall we begin, boss…?"
The lights died.
Darkness devoured the auction hall.
There were screams—not loud, but sharp and stifled, like the gasps of prey sensing the predator. Candles flickered and died. The chandeliers blinked out. The soft hum of background magic cut off completely. Power gone.
"What's going on!?" a noblewoman shrieked.
"Guards! Someone fix the lights!"
Thory's eyes shot to Fen, her voice low and urgent. "Be ready."
Fen nodded and reached for the handle of his axe but he didn't have one.
Then it began.
A low hum. A sound like a growl, no—roots shifting beneath the earth, old and hungry.
The sealed wooden chest began to tremble.
And then… it pulsed.
A deep violet glow seeped from within the grain of the ancient wood. Cracks split across its surface like lightning bolts, light bleeding out like a wound. The aura pushed outward—deadly, ancient, alive.
From the cracks in the chest, wisps of black and purple began to pour out. Smoke-like, but not smoke. Essence. Rage. Memory. Hunger.
The runes on the floor beneath the platform lit up with violet fire, arranged like a blooming rose—only this rose was made of bones and thorns. The cursed energy spread in spiraling patterns, veins of light crawling across the floor and walls.
"Thory!" Fen shouted. "The air—it's changing!"
"I know!" she replied, her voice tight with fear. "That's no ordinary magic. It's trying to bind this place."
The noble crowd erupted into chaos. Some tried to stand. Others ran for the doors—only to find them sealed shut by barriers of pulsing black light.
And above all, the roots.
Not real roots, but magic made manifest—glowing purple tendrils of light, like luminous roots, snaked outward from the stage, crawling across the marble floor, climbing walls, entwining pillars. They surged outward, finding gaps, cracks, air vents.
Within seconds, the magic had reached beyond the auction hall.
Up.
Out.
Into the city.
Outside, in the streets of Mug City, a woman in a silk cloak glanced up in confusion as the streetlamps flickered.
Moments later, every single rune-powered device in the city blinked once—and then shut down.
In the skies above the auction mansion, the air shimmered. Then something horrific began to form.
A cage.
Bones, massive and white, rose like the ribs of some ancient beast. They curled from the ground, forming a claw-like dome that encapsulated the estate—and the entire district around it.
The roots of violet light spread farther, blooming as they went—flowers like bleeding roses, wilted lilies, bone-bloom lotuses. All unnatural. All cursed.
And then came the sound.
A whisper carried on the wind. Not words—more like longing. More like weeping. A city under spell.
Back inside the auction hall, Fen stared in horror.
"This is all a trap," Thory whispered. "A damn setup. That weapon—it's not meant to be sold. It's bait. All of this…"
She looked at Fen, her voice fierce.
"We're inside its domain now."
The cursed blade—still sealed—hummed like a heart that had found its prey.
Thory grabbed Fen's arm. "We need to find the Master Wielder. Fast."
Fen didn't argue.
As nobles continued to scream, and guards tried to break enchanted doors to no avail, the blade pulsed again—and this time, something deep and dark opened its eyes.