The tavern bustled with the usual evening crowd, but the conversation at one table caught Mr. F's attention more than the others.

"Have you heard? Today's auction will feature many valuable items. I heard there will even be sixth-tier potions available. With those, mages can surpass the fifth tier and ascend," one man said excitedly.

"That's nothing," another man interjected. "I heard a phoenix feather will be up for sale. It can revive a person on the brink of death."

A waitress brought the men their beer and chimed in, "You can't even pay your rent on time, so stop dreaming about things you'll never see."

The other man laughed, but the waitress turned to him as well. "And you shouldn't be laughing. If you don't pay child support to your ex-wife, you'll end up in jail one day."

"Come on, don't be like that. We can dream, can't we?" one of the men replied with a grin.

The waitress smiled at them. These two were regulars, and over time, they'd become like family. Their banter was a regular feature of the tavern's nightly atmosphere.

"Okay, okay, the next round is on me," the man said, raising his glass.

The men clinked their glasses together and drank heartily.

Mr. F's interest was piqued. Potions of the sixth tier and a phoenix feather—items of immense power and rarity—were rumored to be available at the auction. He knew he couldn't afford to miss such an opportunity. He quickly finished his meal, taking note of the details he had overheard. The auction would attract the wealthy and powerful, and he needed to blend in if he wanted to gain entry.

As he pondered his next steps, the barmaid approached his table to clear his dishes. "Is everything alright, sir?" she asked, noticing the intense look on his face.

"Yes, thank you. I was just thinking about something I overheard. This auction tonight sounds quite intriguing," Mr. F replied, slipping a silver coin into her hand as a tip. "Do you know where it's being held?"

The barmaid's eyes widened at the sight of the coin, and she leaned in closer. "It's at the Grand Hall in the merchant district, near the old clock tower. Only those with invitations or enough money to bribe the guards get in," she whispered.

Mr. F nodded, thanking her for the information. He had already received this information before but wanted to see if he could learn anything new.

He needed a plan to gain entry. First, he had to acquire suitable clothing to blend in with the upper echelons of society attending the auction. Then, he needed to find a way to get an invitation or enough leverage to convince the guards to let him in.

Leaving the tavern, Mr. F made his way through the bustling streets of the merchant district, heading toward a tailor known for dressing the city's elite. The tailor shop was a modest building on the outside, but inside, it was filled with luxurious fabrics and elegant garments.

"Good day, sir. How may I assist you? Do you need a new garment?" the tailor greeted him warmly as he entered.

Mr. F. responded, "I don't need new clothing. Rather, it's about one of my garments, which is heavily soiled and damaged."

The tailor frowned, wondering if the man before him was senile. He worked at a renowned tailor shop, not a laundry service. However, when Mr. F. unfolded a pitch-black garment, the tailor's curiosity was piqued. What at first appeared to be a tattered piece of cloth soon revealed itself to be something far more extraordinary.

The fabric seemed ordinary at first glance, but as the tailor ran his fingers over it, he realized there was something unique about it. It was unusually soft yet resilient, and it emitted a faint, almost imperceptible energy. The tailor's eyes widened as he examined the intricate, albeit faint, magical runes woven into the fabric.

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"This... this is not an ordinary garment," he stammered. "Where did you get this?"

Mr. F. smiled knowingly. "It has been with me for many years, through countless journeys and battles. It is imbued with powerful magic, but it has seen better days. Can you restore it?"

The tailor, still in a state of awe, nodded slowly. "I believe I can, but it will take time and special materials. This fabric is unlike anything I've ever worked with."

"Time is not a luxury I have," Mr. F. said, his tone serious. "Do what you can, as quickly as you can. I need it for a matter of utmost importance."

Understanding the urgency in Mr. F.'s voice, the tailor resolved to put all his skill and resources into the task. "I will start immediately. Please, come back in a few days. I will do my best to restore this garment to its former glory."

"That's too late," said Mr. F. "I need it by tonight at the latest."

The tailor was speechless. By tonight? It sounded implausible.

He was about to protest when Mr. F. pulled out a heavy sack of coins and pressed it into the tailor's hand. The weight alone was staggering, and when the tailor peeked inside, his breath caught in his throat. Gold coins—more than he had ever seen at once. By the feel of it, there must have been at least fifty.

This was a fortune, especially considering a normal citizen's family earned about three gold coins a year.

The tailor's disbelief quickly turned into determination. "I will do everything in my power to have it ready by tonight," he promised, his voice filled with resolve.

Mr. F. watched the tailor for a moment, satisfied that his request would be met. He turned and left the shop, his mind already focused on the evening ahead. He needed to prepare for the auction, where he hoped to find the items he sought.

Just as dusk began to settle, the tailor set aside his needle and wiped the sweat from his brow. After washing the robe, he had discovered several small holes that needed patching. He had fallen into a kind of trance, unable to focus on anything but repairing the robe. Yet, he had managed to finish it just in time.

It was only now that some peculiarities caught his attention. His once sharp needle, a Tier 4 artifact, was bent and dulled. This wasn't an issue in itself, as he could have it repaired by a smith, but what kind of robe would cause such damage? Then he noticed something even more startling: the nine black cats embroidered on the robe seemed almost alive, their eyes following his every move. A chill ran down his spine. At that exact moment, Mr. F. stepped through the door.

The air in the room grew tense as Mr. F. approached the tailor. His keen eyes immediately assessed the garment laid out before him. "Is it ready?" he asked, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of urgency.

The tailor nodded, still shaken by the strange occurrences but proud of his work. "Yes, it's ready. But, sir," he began, about to mention the oddities he had noticed.

But as he spoke, a strange fog seemed to cloud his mind. He looked around his workshop, a puzzled expression on his face. Wasn't I just talking to someone? He wondered. He shrugged, dismissing the odd sensation, and returned to his work, the memory of Mr. F. already fading from his mind.

Meanwhile, Mr. F. moved swiftly through the dimly lit streets, the freshly mended robe flowing behind him like a shadow. The enchantments within the robe hummed softly, resonating with his own magical aura. As he walked, the weight of the night's exertions still hung heavily on him, but the power of the robe seemed to bolster his waning strength.

He knew that the auction was his next destination.

As he approached the grand hall where the auction was to be held, Mr. F observed the increasing number of nobles and powerful magicians gathering. Some flew through the air, others rode in their carriages, but there were also those like him, traveling on foot.

Mr. F touched the cats on his chest, and three of the nine cats vanished. Revealing himself as a Tier 9 sorcerer would attract too much attention. He wasn't even sure if a Tier 9 or even a Tier 8 sorcerer existed in such a remote town.

Upon arriving at the auction house, he saw a short line but didn't mind waiting briefly, knowing the auction wouldn't start for another hour.

When it was Mr. F's turn, he stepped forward to the entrance.

"Name?" the attendant at the entrance inquired, without looking up from his list.

"My name is not on the list."

"Invitation?" the attendant asked again, his tone growing impatient.

"I don't have an invitation, but…" Mr. F began to explain.

Before he could finish his sentence, the attendant cut him off, raising his voice, "No invitation, no entry. Next, please."

Mr. F felt a surge of irritation. He knew he couldn't afford to be denied access. Summoning his resolve, he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a more authoritative tone. "Listen carefully. I have business here that you wouldn't understand. Let me in, and I assure you, no trouble will come your way."

As the attendant looked up, their eyes met.

"Of course, please come in. Enjoy the auction," the attendant said, his tone robotic, eyes glazed.

Without further ado, Mr. F entered the auction hall, his senses sharp, ready for whatever the night might bring.