The Starveil Auction House glittered like a Zenoite vein in Crestmoore's gritty heart, its marble walls sneering at the market's dust. I swaggered in, gold-tipped braid bouncing, the curse's 30 kg weight dragging my legs but not my grin. The manager, a Peak Master Earth cultivator with eyes sharp as a Wyver's claws, nodded. "Killyaen, that Crystal Wyrm's Beast Core from your early haul nabbed 10 Level 4 Spirit Stones—bidders went berserk. Your new Wyver loot and nine-day quarry haul? They're drooling already. Auction's three days out; it'll be a bloodbath."I propped an elbow on the counter, smirking. "Spill the bids for my stash." He cracked open a ledger, voice slicing like my mithril blades. "Crystal Wyver's High-grade Beast Core, one unit, cultivation gold—10 Level 4 Spirit Stones. Five kilos of Wyver scales for armor at 50 Level 2; eight fangs, 800 grams, for blades at 40 Level 2; twelve claws, 600 grams, for talismans at 30 Level 2; 200 grams of Tempestite crystals for arrays at 20 Level 2. Opeka Zenoite Coin, 300 grams with Azurion runes, at 15 Level 3—relic hounds are buzzing. Your quarry scraps: one kilo of Gloomvine tendrils, 10 bundles, at 10 Level 1; one-and-a-half kilos of Rotting Blind Mice pelts, 15 units, at 15 Level 1; two kilos of Moonstone fragments at 12 Level 1; 500 grams of Quarry Moss spores at 8 Level 1; two kilos of Zenoite Krovar horns, four units, at 25 Level 2; 100 grams of Starborn Drake feathers, 50 units, at 30 Level 2; 300 grams of Bloodthirsty Lotus sap at 20 Level 2; 600 grams of Silver Wolf fangs, six units, at 35 Level 2; one kilo of Lunargent ore chunks at 20 Level 3; 50 grams of Glintmoth wing shards at 12 Level 3."I whistled low. Ten Level 4, a pile of Level 3s, and a mountain of Level 2s? A mortal's wet dream. My spatial ring held 10 Level 4 Stones, 170 Level 1s, and 500 gold coins, though I'd burned 80 Level 1s on that glowing egg and Bera and Tira's tower time. This haul could fetch maybe 1,700 Level 2 Stones if bidders went feral—enough to drown my goddesses in cultivation juice. "Not bad for nine days wrestling Rotting Blind Mice and dodging Bloodthirsty Lotuses," I said, grin widening.The manager's eyes glinted. "You haven't seen the real prizes." My gaze snagged on the auction catalog, a shimmer of Starforged Etherium winking like Tira's phoenix tattoo. "What else is on the block? My Stones are itching." He slid a page my way, smirk sly as a Glintmoth. "Feast on this: a Heaven-grade sword, Starforged Etherium, three feet of pure death. Light as a Moonflower puff, sharp enough to split a Wyver's hide. Perfect for your Heaven Splitter. Starting bid's 500 Level 2 Spirit Stones, up for grabs in three days' bidding."My pulse roared like Bera's Fire Fang. I pictured it—sleek, lethal, slicing cleaner than Tira's curves through my filthy dreams. "Details," I growled, practically drooling. He obliged: etherium blade, Wyrm-hide hilt, balanced like Bera's hips on a Zorath. Mine. But 500 Level 2 Stones, auction-only? My 10 Level 4 Stones were worth 1,000 Level 2s, and my haul might pull 1,700 more, but outbidding Valthorne's sects would be like wrestling a Zenoite Krovar blind. My gut twisted, but I kept my grin. "What else you got? Any blades to tide me over?"He flipped the page, eyes gleaming. "Thought you'd ask. Here's an Earth-grade Moonsilver Alloy sword, two-and-a-half feet, sharper than your mithril toys and light enough to dance with Earth Qi. Earth Qi resonance, Krovar-leather grip. Starts at 150 Level 2 Spirit Stones, same auction." I leaned closer, picturing it—better than my mithril blades, a solid fallback if the Heaven-grade slipped away. Still, 150 Level 2 Stones meant bidding, not buying. "Not bad," I muttered, mind racing. Three days to crush the bids for the Heaven-grade—or snag the Moonsilver as a consolation prize.I forced a laugh, masking the churn in my head. "Steep for both, but the Supreme Elf doesn't blink. I'll claim that Heaven-grade, maybe the Moonsilver too." The manager's brow arched, amused. "Move fast, elf. Valthorne's sects are circling those blades like Rotting Blind Mice." I nodded, smirk plastered on, brain spinning. Three days to scrape Stones or pull a stunt wilder than a Glowvine net. As I strutted out, the Heaven-grade's gleam burned hotter than a fireball, the Moonsilver's glow a teasing backup, both maddeningly out of reach.Crestmoore's streets buzzed with evening clamor, vendors peddling Firebloom tinctures and Zenoite baubles under flickering lanterns. I wandered alone, the curse's 30 kg weight grinding my steps, my spatial ring heavy with 10 Level 4 Stones, 170 Level 1s, and 500 gold coins. Bera and Tira were locked in the Cultivation Tower, meditating for another five days—or less if they broke through to Peak Master Earth early. I wouldn't bug them; my goddesses needed to grow stronger, their meridians humming with fresh Qi. Let 'em cultivate. The Supreme Elf can handle this solo.I slumped against a wall in a quiet alley, the curse's drain easing as I rested, a faint warmth from my passive healing soothing my muscles. Five hundred Level 2 Stones for the Heaven-grade, 150 for the Moonsilver. Three days to make it happen. My Wyver haul's bids—10 Level 4, 47 Level 3, 250 Level 2, 45 Level 1—could net 1,700 Level 2 Stones if the crowd went wild. My 10 Level 4 Stones were another 1,000 Level 2s, but cashing them would gut Bera and Tira's cultivation. The 170 Level 1s and 500 gold coins were pocket lint for those swords.I pulled a scrap of parchment from my ring, sketching plans, only to slash through them one by one. Guild hunts? Too risky with the curse slowing me down. Back-alley deals? I'd get fleeced or worse. Rigging the auction with rumors? Tempting, but I'd need allies, and my goddesses were out of reach. No, Killyaen, think bigger. Lord Crestmoore's shadow loomed in my mind—his promise to let me stay if I proved my worth, his threat to boot me or lock me up if I didn't. I'd started carving a name here, the Supreme Elf's legend spreading through Crestmoore's taverns. I couldn't let some sect elder snatch that Heaven-grade sword and humiliate me. I'm putting down roots, damn it.After an hour of pacing and crumpled parchment, I made my call. Risk it all. I'd throw every Stone I had—10 Level 4s, 170 Level 1s—and whatever my auction earned into the bidding. The Heaven-grade was my prize, the Moonsilver my fallback. If I won, I'd cement my name and keep Lord Crestmoore off my back. If I lost, I'd be broke, but Bera and Tira would break through soon. Together, we'd grind mercenary missions—slow, painful work, but perfect for stabilizing their meridians after long cultivation. Those 1-star herb hunts and rat chases would suck, but they'd forge us tighter as Fiery Fissure, raking in Stones the hard way.Satisfied, I headed to The Pine Tavern, its glow warm against Crestmoore's chill night. I ordered a Firebloom ale, the curse's weight lighter at rest, my mind settling. Three days. I'll bid like a madman and walk out with a blade worthy of the Supreme Elf. As I drained my mug, planning to crash in my room, a familiar figure sauntered over, her blonde hair catching the lanternlight like a Glintmoth's wings. Vira, the market cultivator—our "steamy revenge" on Bera and Tira still burned in my memory, her curves as bold as her smirk (Page 14).She slid into my booth, eyes gleaming. "Well, if it ain't the Supreme Elf," Vira purred, leaning close, her scent like Firebloom and mischief. "Fancy a reprise of our market fun? No crowd this time, just us… and let's make it last a little longer." Her fingers brushed my arm, and my blood roared hotter than a Wyver's breath.I didn't think twice. Grinning like a starved beast, I grabbed Vira's hand and hauled her toward my room, her laughter trailing like a phoenix's flame. The door slammed shut, and the night dissolved into sighs, moans, screams, and more, the sounds echoing through the tavern's walls till dawn. Sorry, goddesses, the Supreme Elf's got needs while you cultivate.
