For a great clan, funding a hunt for a chance like this is a drop in a river, not a feast. Besides, grasping True God power from those so‑called Mana Crystals is like trying to catch lightning in a jar.

To small houses it’s a rare gem; to great clans it’s a bone with little meat. As an opening lot, though, it strikes like a gong at dawn.

Bids still fluttered like moths to a lamp, but the range stayed narrow like a drawn bowstring. No one wanted to burn their coffers on kindling.

Seeing the first lot, Aphelia felt a wry warmth rise, like steam from a cup, then steadied. Lilo’s claim checked out—the Royal Family stood behind this auction like a mountain behind mist.

The Valkyrie had told her the battlefield lay deep in the Hydra Plains, a dead land like ash after suns collided. A True God duel had scorched it into silence.

To pull divine Mana Crystals from such a graveyard, only Senro, who’d stood there too, could have fished diamonds from that abyss.

She sighed, a helpless smile like a bent reed, then spoke. “So it really is the Royals’ show. Otherwise who’d dare toss this onto the block.”

“Exactly. Back in Blackhold, that Lord Senro felt tied to the crown like roots to old stone,” Lilo said, her smile holding barbs like a hidden hook. She pinged her clan like a quick bird call, then let the bidding go cold.

The first lot closed fast, and the young page whisked the Mana Crystal away like a pebble into a stream, leaving the stage to the girl auctioneer.

“Congratulations to guest forty‑five on the purchase. We’ll deliver it to your estate within three Demon World days. Next up, another piece steeped in divine power.”

She gestured toward the heavy curtain like a fan hiding a secret. The promise hung in the air like incense, and expectant eyes glimmered like stars before dawn.

Items touched by a True God are rare as phoenix feathers. Most surface in royal vaults or great‑clan hoards, so each Capital Founding Auction feels like tossing bones with fate.

Catch even a thread of a True God’s legacy, and a Demigod can rise like a mountain from fog. Some even hope to step into True God, like a spark finding heaven’s fire.

“Of course, it’s not a Mana Crystal this time.”

She pressed a finger to her lips like a playful demon, calming the ripple of voices like a hand on water. Then she beckoned. The curtain parted like night split by a blade.

A knight in heavy mail walked out slow as thunder. He held an archaic greatsword, its guard swaddled in chains like ivy on a tomb, the metal frost‑worn as if a breath could turn it to dust.

At a glance it was an old sword, ordinary as a river stone. Murmurs stirred like wind in reeds. Was the auction padding the slate with driftwood?

As if to answer, the knight stepped back, a furnace flaring behind steel. Arcane Power bloomed like flame and poured into the blade like lava into a mold.

In a heartbeat, a brutal force swept the hall like a storm tearing roofs. Chains burst and hung weightless like broken halos. Crimson Flame blossomed like a blood‑red flower, and the blade shed its rust like a snake sloughing skin.

That sudden True God aura hit like winter air in the lungs. Gazes locked on the sword like iron filings to a lodestone, every heartbeat a drum.

The girl auctioneer flicked her hand like a ribbon. The knight drew the fire back like tide from shore. Edge dimmed, dust settled, and the ancient calm returned as if the aura had been a dream.

Watching the ripple she’d cast, the auctioneer smiled, fox‑bright. “Royal guarantee: a blade infused with True God power. No worries about royal pursuit—your certificate will be sealed by the crown.”

She sent the ironclad knight sweeping the aisle like a swift shadow. He moved fast, letting that aura brush past like a breeze, then vanish, leaving hearts itching like ants under skin.

Aphelia felt more helplessness than heat, a chill like dew on steel, and suspicion like a thorn. If she recalled right, that sword belonged to the Demonic Knight—Oz.

After that war, the Demonic Knight and a middle‑aged man vanished like stones in deep water. Now the sword lay in royal hands; their fate looked written like ink on snow.

Lilo’s smile went bitter, like tea steeped too long. The power of the Crimson Dragon Source in her body had been drawn from Uroboros by the Valkyrie, then refined and tempered like iron in ten fires.

It’s fused into my soul now, she thought, rooted like a tree in loam. That archaic blade fell from a weapon poised to awaken an Artifact Spirit to a mere Titled‑grade armament.

The trace of Valkyrie power inside it was likely planted on purpose, a veil of smoke to mislead like mirage over sand.

They traded a glance, twin bitter smiles like mirrors, and let the lot drift to others like a leaf on current.

“Didn’t expect the Royals to auction it already,” Lilo murmured, voice flat as a calm lake. “They must know the sword’s lost its original bite.”

She pinged her clan again like a sparrow’s chirp, then nudged the bids up a few times like tossing pebbles, and withdrew with a laugh light as wind.

“Odd move,” Aphelia mused, thought coils tightening like a serpent. “Are they telling the world Oz has lost his seat among the Demonic Knights?”

Even stripped of its quasi‑artifact standing, a blade with a sip of Valkyrie power is still a fine edge, like a moonlit knife.

But this old sword is more than steel. It’s a sigil of Oz’s station in the Demon World, a banner of power like a flame on a tower.

Aphelia didn’t believe a hall this grand held no one who knew that blade’s former master. Those who did would weigh its meaning like gold on a scale, even if they reached for it with gloves.

Yet the Royals let it flow into the market like a river loosed. That meant Oz, the former Demonic Knight, had been dropped like a drained husk.

Lilo nodded, a quiet drumbeat of agreement. “Seems the crown has that plan. I’ve heard whispers—Oz’s family is being ‘reorganized,’ like a garden pruned with knives.”

“The certificate’s a lightning rod,” Aphelia continued, her tone cool as shade. “Oz’s deeds on the Hydra Plains have bared their fangs. His house will be hit, and whoever holds the sword becomes their target, like a torch in a swarm.”

The more they thought, the clearer it felt: this second lot was a hot potato, a coal too bright to pocket.

Yes, it held True God force, and yes, it could be wielded, like a torch in a cavern. A taste of Valkyrie essence could carry one farther on the path, like wind at a back.

But that’s the future. How many clans can weather a mad backlash from a house turned stray dog, teeth bared like broken glass?

Lilo sighed, a mix of pride and pity like sun through rain. She’d gained power to reach True God, anchoring the Crimson Dragon Clan in the Demon World like stakes in bedrock, yet that power came from stripping Oz bare. The world turns like a wheel over dust.

Many guests sensed the knife hidden in the honey. Still, the True God might wasn’t counterfeit, loud as thunder. Compared to the last Mana Crystal, this sword was a brighter lure, a twin braid of risk and fortune like yin and yang.

Two bidders leapt first, their offers crashing in million‑gold waves. Others sat back to watch the tigers maul each other, cool as stones on a hill.

“Guest twenty‑three bids three million gold. Any raises? Guest forty bumps it by another million.”

The auctioneer’s eyes glittered like stars, her pulse quickening like a drum. The fiercer the bids, the fatter her purse, and this was only the second lot of the Capital Founding Auction.

You could taste the heat ahead like summer on the wind. It would only climb.

Soon the duel neared its crest, and both twenty‑three and forty sounded breathless, like runners at the tape.

“Guest forty bids fifteen million. Any further raises? Any further raises? If not, three, two—”

She saw twenty‑three stall at the line, and a tiny sigh wilted like a petal, though her smile blazed like noon. In box forty, a smug grin spread like oil, full of petty relief.

“Guest forty‑five raises—five million!”

She was about to say one when the shout from a box cut like a bell. Even trained calm cracked, her heartbeat kicked like a colt, and she cried it out.

The smug grin on forty’s face froze like a puppet’s broken smile, stuck in place like ice in mid‑thaw.