Amber Sword

The sheepskin scroll, referred to by the auction house as the 'Revelation Scroll,' caused a ripple among the crowd when it appeared. The low murmurs spread like waves, quickly reaching Brand and his group's ears, making it clear that the auctioneer had at least managed to attract most people's attention right from the start.

Although people whispered among themselves, most remained motionless. The nobles willing to compete for the scroll generally had decent wealth, and these individuals sat leisurely in the upper boxes, waiting for the first bidder.

"Elemental Revelation Scrolls are mostly crafted by the elves of the Crystal Tundra, and there's a fixed annual quota. Originally, they were meant to replenish the number of junior element masters within the tribe - but quite a few scrolls are privately circulated each year," explained the Limp Man.

"Then why don't they make more of them?" Roman asked on the side.

"Creating Elemental Revelation Scrolls requires consuming magic power from the Element Pool, which is a significant matter for high-level element masters," Char replied.

"Moreover, using Element Scrolls to forcefully establish an elemental contract can be successful for ordinary people, but their lifetime achievements would ultimately be limited. They wouldn't be much stronger than average individuals, so these scrolls are not necessarily better in greater numbers," he continued.

Batom, Antitina, and Roman listened intently and were surprised by the scroll's provenance. Char and Brand had heard of them before, but Brand still responded:

"I just didn't expect to see it here in Brags."

The Limp Man's senses were as keen as a thieving rat's, sensing that the young man in Brand's words had knowledge far beyond this small place of Brags—though for Roman and Antitina, this was the biggest city they had ever seen. He thought for a moment and asked, "Lord, are you interested in it?"

"A bit."

"Should I have my men bid on it?" the Limp Man asked.

Publication courtesy of M|V|LE-MPYR.

Brand considered for a moment and nodded. The base price for the Revelation Scroll was five thousand torr, with each subsequent bid increment being five percent of the base price. Following the Limp Man's signal, his men quickly raised a bid card.

Five thousand.

With the first bidder, the price quickly climbed, with new offers coming from the second and third-tier boxes and refreshing in rounds. The auctioneer hadn't had time to raise his hammer yet, and the price had already reached eight thousand torr.

Offers went around the 'small theater' until they returned to Brand. The Limp Man turned back and looked at him inquiringly, and after thinking for a moment, he signaled a figure.

His men raised the card—

Eight thousand five hundred.

Antitina's expression subtly changed.

Little Roman was indifferent.

Batom had a look of enjoying the show.

However, a new voice soon came from the boxes on the second tier, and the auctioneer's assistant read out the new bid: "Nine thousand torr." The nobles in the boxes were starting to grow impatient.

The second round of competition lost its apparent tentative mood, becoming almost bloody, with each cold bid read out increasing gradually; from nine thousand torr, each bid nearly always increased by ten percent of the previous price—ten thousand, eleven thousand, twelve thousand...

Both the auctioneer and his assistant remained calm, but by then, no further introduction was needed as the bidding entered a fervent stage. But the price evidently hadn't reached their desired levels.

Finally, a faint voice came from the fourth box on the left, "Fifteen thousand."

Like the final drumbeat in a storm, after the last rain shower, the wind and rain stopped. The dense crowd below felt like theater spectators holding their breath, thinking this was the drumroll.

The Limp Man smacked his lips and looked back again.

Brand frowned, pondering whether exchanging sixteen thousand torr for two thousand points of experience was worthwhile. But he hesitated only for a moment before gently tapping the back of his hand.

The Limp Man's men raised the card again:

Sixteen thousand torr.

The crowd slightly froze, knowing they had reached the critical moment.

The auctioneer's assistant couldn't help but mutter upon seeing the raised card from the 'audience': "Is the Limp Man crazy? We didn't ask him to do that; the nobles might not be happy—"

The auctioneer pouted at his young assistant: "He has someone backing him."