The city of Blackmoor was a labyrinth of iron and stone, where the sun never truly touched the streets. Smoke from the factories darkened the skies, and the heavy air was thick with the bitter tang of coal and rust. The people moved like shadows, their faces shrouded in suspicion and secrecy, all too aware that the only currency that mattered here was power—and the lengths one would go to get it.
Korin Dreylin stood on the edge of a rooftop, his dark cloak whipping in the wind as he surveyed the city below. The flicker of torchlight illuminated the narrow streets, where the evening markets were just beginning to bustle with activity. Blackmoor never slept, and neither did its secrets.
Korin’s sharp eyes moved over the crowd, assessing the merchants and buyers with practiced ease. Information was his trade, and tonight, there was a whisper that had traveled through the underbelly of the city—a whisper of something ancient, something powerful. His hand brushed against the small vial of Luvian Serum hidden within his cloak, its faint glow barely visible beneath the folds of fabric. It wasn’t the serum that held his attention tonight, but something far more valuable.
For weeks, rumors had reached Korin’s ears, rumors of an object with the power to shift the balance of Blackmoor itself. A relic, said to amplify certain... abilities. Not just the kind of mundane tools that made one stronger or faster—no, this was something different. Something older. Something that the old myths spoke of but no one truly believed anymore.
Power like that wasn’t supposed to exist. Not anymore.
But Korin had learned long ago that nothing was impossible. Not in Blackmoor.
Tonight, that relic was up for auction, and Korin intended to claim it. His eyes narrowed as he disappeared into the shadows, his footsteps silent on the slick cobblestone streets below.
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The auction house was hidden beneath the city, like so many other secrets in Blackmoor. Korin passed through a rusted iron gate, slipping into a narrow alleyway that led to the undercity. The air grew colder as he descended, the scent of damp stone mingling with the distant hum of machinery and the flickering light of oil lamps.
When he reached the door, he knocked in a specific pattern, one only known to those with the right connections. A narrow slit in the door opened, revealing a pair of suspicious eyes.
"Invitation?" the guard asked, his voice a low growl.
Without a word, Korin produced a folded parchment, passing it through the slit. After a brief inspection, the door creaked open, and Korin stepped inside. The stairwell before him plunged into darkness, leading deeper into the heart of the city. He moved without hesitation, the weight of anticipation settling over him like a cloak.
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The auction chamber was dimly lit, the flickering glow of lanterns casting long shadows across the room. Velvet drapes lined the walls, and thick rugs muffled the sound of footsteps as masked figures gathered in silence. Korin recognized some of them—not by their faces, but by their presence, their posture. These were the power players of Blackmoor, the ones who pulled the strings behind the scenes.
At the far end of the room, a small stage had been erected, and on it stood a wiry man with a thin face and sharp eyes, his features obscured by the hood of his dark robes. In his hands, he held a small, ornate box, polished and gleaming in the dim light.
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Korin’s pulse quickened. That was the relic.
The auctioneer’s voice cut through the tense silence, his tone smooth and practiced. “Tonight’s item is one of unparalleled rarity. A relic from a forgotten age. It is said that those who possess it may unlock… potential beyond what they thought possible.”
The room stirred with interest. Even in a place like Blackmoor, where ambition ruled every heart, the mention of such a relic was enough to set the room on edge. No one here truly believed in legends, but power—real power—was something they all understood.
“The bidding will start at five thousand crowns,” the auctioneer announced.
Korin remained still, watching as the bids climbed higher with each passing moment. Five thousand. Ten thousand. Fifteen. The tension in the room thickened like smoke, but Korin waited. He was patient, and patience had always served him well.
When the bidding reached twenty thousand, Korin finally raised his hand. “Twenty-five thousand,” he said, his voice low but carrying through the room.
The room fell silent as every masked figure turned to look at him. For a moment, the air felt heavy with anticipation. But Korin remained calm, his eyes fixed on the relic in the auctioneer’s hands. It was close now—just within his grasp.
“Twenty-five thousand crowns,” the auctioneer repeated, a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “Going once—”
The door at the far end of the room burst open with a thunderous crash, and the chamber was plunged into stunned silence.
A figure stepped through the doorway, their presence like a cold gust of wind that swept through the room. Cloaked in shadow, with a hood that obscured their face, the figure moved with an eerie, unnatural grace, their steps soundless on the stone floor. For a moment, Korin felt the air shift—grow heavier, darker.
The room was stifling, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Whoever this figure was, they radiated power—ancient power. It was something Korin couldn’t explain, but he could feel it, pressing down on him like the weight of a storm. The masked figures around him shifted uneasily, their confidence shattered in the face of something they didn’t understand.
Korin’s instincts screamed at him to run, but he was rooted to the spot, his eyes locked on the cloaked figure as they made their way toward the stage.
The auctioneer, once composed and in control, now stumbled back, clutching the ornate box to his chest as though it would protect him. But it was too late. The figure moved with lightning speed, a flash of silver glinting in the dim light as they struck. The auctioneer’s body crumpled to the floor, blood pooling beneath him as his lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling.
Korin’s heart raced as the box—the relic—fell from the auctioneer’s grasp, tumbling across the floor toward him.
Without a second thought, Korin lunged forward, his hand closing around the cold, polished wood of the box just as the figure turned toward him. Their face was still hidden, but Korin could feel their gaze—could feel the weight of it pressing down on him like a hand closing around his throat. It was ancient. It was terrifying.
He didn’t know what this figure was, but he knew one thing for certain: they weren’t here for gold or crowns. They were here for something far more dangerous.
The figure took a step forward, and for a moment, Korin felt as though the very air around him was being pulled away. The pressure in the room was suffocating, the shadows closing in like a living thing.
Korin knew he had only moments to act. Without a word, he slipped the box into his cloak and bolted for the door, his heart pounding in his chest. Behind him, he could feel the figure’s presence still lingering, like a dark specter that trailed him through the twisting corridors of the undercity.
But he didn’t look back. He couldn’t.
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Korin fled through the narrow streets of Blackmoor, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he darted through the maze of alleys and hidden passageways. The relic was his now, but the weight of it felt heavier than he had expected, as though the box itself held more than just wood and metal.
He could still feel the presence of the cloaked figure behind him, though when he glanced over his shoulder, the streets were empty. But the air felt wrong, the shadows darker than they should have been. Something was out there, something ancient and powerful, and it wasn’t done with him yet.
Korin’s grip tightened on the box as he ducked into the nearest alley, his heart racing. Whatever he had just stolen, it was far more than a simple relic. And, Korin thought, the figure in black was far more than just a bidder.