Chapter 14: The Auction of Stolen Levels

The auction house had been built inside the rib cage of a dead god.

At least, that was what the tout at the sewer gate whispered as he took Eli’s silver and branded the inside of his wrist with a stamp of cold blue fire. “Old titan, old dragon, old something,” the man said, his voice wet with nerves and cheap mushroom wine. “Nobody asks too hard down here. Asking hard is how you get folded into someone’s storage ring.”

The brand settled beneath Eli’s skin like a patch of frostbite. Lines of pale code crawled around his pulse.

BLACK CURRENT AUCTION ACCESS TOKEN ACQUIRED
Duration: 03:59:58
Masking Layer: Moderate
Warning: Token origin obfuscated. Traceback attempt may trigger vendor hostility.

Eli flexed his fingers and watched the System window stutter at the edge of his vision. The warning blinked twice, duplicated, then corrected itself.

Sloppy token validation. Reused signature. Whoever ran the Black Current cared more about intimidation than security.

That was comforting in the way a cracked bridge was comforting because at least you could see where it would kill you.

“You staring at invisible nonsense again?” Mara asked.

She stood beside him in a hooded cloak that had once been brown and was now mostly mud, soot, and stubbornness. The cursed shield on her back had been wrapped in sailcloth and chain to hide the living black veins pulsing across its surface. Every few breaths, the cloth twitched as if something underneath were dreaming of teeth.

“Always,” Eli said. “Invisible nonsense is usually where people hide the murder holes.”

“I prefer visible murder holes.” Mara glanced down the tunnel. “At least you can put a shield in front of those.”

“You put a shield in front of everything.”

“And yet everyone keeps being alive. Strange pattern.”

Behind them, Nessa tugged her hood lower until only the curve of her chin and the glow of her pale-gold eyes showed. Her healer’s mark—the deletion sigil burned into the skin beneath her collarbone—had been covered by layered scarves and a strip of anti-scrying gauze Eli had bought from a goblin who insisted it was “almost not cursed.” The gauze smelled like vinegar and grave dust.

“We should make this quick,” Nessa said softly. “There are watchers in the water.”

Eli looked.

The sewer canal beside them ran black and slow, carrying oily reflections of lanterns that hung from hooks in the brick. At first it was just water. Then the surface blinked.

Not one eye. Dozens.

They opened in ripples, pearl-white pupils tracking the flow of bodies heading toward the auction entrance. Merchants in silk masks. Guild bruisers with weapon licenses glowing at their hips. Hooded nobles walking three steps behind hired killers. A priest with his holy symbol turned inside out. Two beastkin dragging a sealed iron cart that whimpered from within.

“Watcher eels,” Cael said from Eli’s other side.

The prodigy leaned against the tunnel wall as if they were waiting outside a bakery instead of descending into a criminal market beneath the city of Veyr. His silver hair had been dyed coal-black for the infiltration, though a stubborn gleam of moonlight still clung to the tips. He wore a servant’s half-mask and plain gloves, but nothing could hide the way System pressure warped around him. His class should not exist. The world seemed to remember that whenever he moved.

“They read aggression spikes,” Cael continued. “Fear too, sometimes. Don’t think too loudly about killing anyone.”

Mara snorted. “That’s half my personality.”

“Try making room for hobbies.”

“I have hobbies.”

“Name one.”

“Not dying.”

“A classic.”

Eli raised a hand before Mara could escalate to physical critique. “We get in, find supply lots, bid or steal depending on price, gather information, get out. No duels. No hero speeches. No touching anything labeled ‘sealed by royal decree’ unless it’s unattended and small enough to pocket.”

Nessa’s eyes flicked to him. “That sounded rehearsed.”

“I used to work with designers. You learn to define edge cases early.”

Mara gave him a blank look.

“It means people are idiots in predictable ways.”

“Ah,” Mara said. “Strategy.”

The tunnel opened beneath a vast arch made of bone.

The rib cage rose out of the dark like the remains of some impossible leviathan, each curved strut thicker than a tower and carved with thousands of names. Market stalls clung to the bones on scaffolds of black iron. Lanterns burned with green witchflame. Banners hung from tendon-like cables, displaying sigils Eli recognized and several he wished he didn’t: Golden Hart Trading Consortium, Ash Viper Mercantile, the Red Ladder Guild, the Salt Knives, the Veiled Choir.

At the center, where the god-beast’s spine had once been, stood the auction dais. A circular platform of polished obsidian floated over a pit of mist. Around it, tiered galleries spiraled upward, crowded with masked bidders. Above them all, suspended in chains, hung cages, crystal vaults, sealed crates, and living things asleep beneath layers of binding script.

Noise struck Eli like heat from an opened oven.

Coin chimes. Monster cries. Haggling. Laughter. The wet chop of cleavers from food stalls selling skewered cave eel and something that still had fingers. Somewhere, a bard played a song on a bone flute that made Eli’s teeth ache. The air was rich with incense, blood, hot metal, sweat, and ozone from too many enchantments rubbing against each other.

Aetherfall’s respectable markets sold potions in glass cases and dungeon permits stamped by guild clerks.

The Black Current sold everything those markets pretended did not exist.

Eli’s Patchborn sight unfolded without permission.

Not a skill activation. More like a reflexive flinch. The world lost some of its color as seams of violet diagnostic light threaded through stalls, people, items, and hidden wards. Status panes flickered above goods when he focused.

LOT FRAGMENT PREVIEW
Cracked Wyvern Core x3 — Level Range: 21-27
Stability: 68%
Contamination: Minor rage bleed
Exploit Note: Core retains impact memory. Can be used to reinforce shield bash effects beyond listed tier.

ILLEGAL DUNGEON KEY
Instance: Hollow Orchard
Recommended Level: 18-22
Entries Remaining: 5/5
Ownership: Disputed
Exploit Note: Key was duplicated during transfer. Instance may spawn twin reward tables if entered during lunar lag window.

CAPTURED POWER-LEVELING SLOT
Contract Binding: Red Ladder Guild
Stored Contribution Credit: 41,300 XP
Eligible Recipient: Unassigned
Warning: Forced assignment may result in soul shear.

Eli stopped walking.

Mara bumped his shoulder. “What?”

“They’re selling XP slots.”

Cael’s expression sharpened beneath his mask. “That’s real?”

“Apparently.” Eli watched a pair of servants roll a brass cylinder past them. Inside, a young man floated unconscious in amber fluid, wires of light running from his wrists into a locked contribution meter. His skin was gray. His level marker had been scraped off by some hiding effect, but Eli could see the scars where the System had been forced to recalculate him again and again.

Nessa made a quiet, wounded sound.

Mara’s hand drifted toward her wrapped shield.

“No,” Eli murmured.

“He’s in a jar.”

“I noticed.”

“Eli.”

“If we break one jar in the entrance hall, we die before we reach the second. We need to know how many there are, who’s buying, and where they’re stored.”

Mara’s jaw bunched. The cloth over her shield rippled, and a thin black vein crawled up the side of her neck before she forced a breath through her nose. Her cursed tree had changed after the last fight. Debuffs no longer just sank into her. They nested, twisted, hardened into armor. Rage made her stronger now, if she survived long enough to shape it.

That was the problem with good builds. They tempted you to test them in terrible places.

Nessa touched Mara’s wrist. “Not yet.”

The words did what Eli’s could not. Mara’s fingers loosened.

“Fine,” Mara said. “But I’m remembering every face.”

“Good,” Eli said. “I’m remembering the receipts.”

They moved into the crowd.

Their disguises were thin but layered. Mara was muscle for hire, which required no acting. Nessa was a relic-appraiser from a minor temple, keeping her voice low and her hands hidden. Cael was supposedly Eli’s indentured assistant, an idea he had accepted with a smile so calm it promised future retaliation. Eli played a mid-tier broker from the outer ruins, the sort of man with enough coin to be worth flattering and not enough influence to be worth fearing.

He had even let Cael draw a fake mustache on him with alchemical ink.

It itched.

“You look dignified,” Cael said.

“I look like a villain who sells counterfeit furniture.”

“Dignified counterfeit furniture.”

“Keep talking and your servant contract gets very detailed.”

Cael bowed. “As master commands.”

Mara looked between them. “Are you always like this when surrounded by criminals?”

“Humor regulates panic,” Eli said.

“I regulate panic by hitting it.”

“We all bring gifts to the party.”

The first hour vanished into reconnaissance.

Eli mapped exits, guard rotations, ward anchors, and bidder tiers while pretending to inspect supply lots. The Black Current had rules. All markets did. No open killing outside the dueling pits. No unsanctioned scrying. No theft from lots before payment. No divine guild banners displayed. No direct attacks on auction staff unless you paid an injury deposit in advance.

That last one had a posted fee schedule.

Cael stole it.

“Why?” Eli whispered.

“Souvenir.”

“Put it back.”

“No.”

Nessa examined a tray of healing reagents with professional despair. “Half of these are diluted.”

The masked vendor clasped his hands. “Temple lady wounds me.”

“Not as much as this would wound a patient. This moonlace is cut with corpse lichen.”

“A stabilizing agent.”

“A cheap poison.”

“In sufficient quantities, what is the difference?”

Mara leaned over the stall. “Her patience.”

The vendor looked at Mara’s shoulders, at the suspiciously shield-shaped bundle on her back, and suddenly discovered a drawer of better stock.

They bought what they could: burn paste, bone needles, mana salts, two vials of true moonlace, and a pouch of powdered basilisk scale Eli flagged as mislabeled but useful.

ALCHEMICAL COMPONENT ACQUIRED
Powdered Basilisk Scale
Listed Use: Paralytic poison
Actual Use: Petrification resistance catalyst
Exploit Note: When mixed with cursed iron filings, grants temporary immunity to gaze-triggered debuffs while still registering debuff application.

Eli immediately handed it to Mara.

She squinted. “Why are you giving me monster dandruff?”

“Because if I’m right, this lets you get hit by gaze curses without suffering the gaze curse.”

Her eyes brightened in a way that made several nearby shoppers step away. “Free defense stacks?”

“Potentially.”

“I love crime.”

“We are not doing crime. We are selectively disrespecting market inefficiency.”

“That’s crime with a hat.”

The auction bell rang.

It did not sound like metal. It sounded like a throat clearing in a cathedral.

Every conversation dimmed. Bodies flowed toward the central galleries. Eli’s wrist brand burned colder, tugging him toward a stairway carved into bone. They climbed with the crowd to the third ring, where mid-tier bidders sat on benches of black oak. Higher above, private booths were veiled by curtains of light, silhouettes moving behind them like predators behind waterfall mist.

The party took places near an aisle. Mara sat at Eli’s left, knees spread, cloak barely containing the hard geometry of her armor. Nessa sat at his right, hands folded, eyes lowered. Cael stood behind them with perfect servant posture and the faint smirk of a man mentally cataloging everyone’s weaknesses.

On the floating dais below, mist curled around a tall figure in a mirror mask.

The auctioneer wore a coat made of overlapping contracts. Parchment strips fluttered with signatures, thumbprints, blood marks, and tiny screaming seals. When he lifted his arms, the murmuring crowd fell silent.

“Honored patrons,” he said, voice magnified into velvet thunder. “Welcome to the Black Current’s seventh convergence under Veyr. Tonight’s offerings have been vetted for potency, rarity, and delightful legal ambiguity.”

Scattered laughter.

“As always, payment may be rendered in coin, cores, favors, secrets, registered titles, unregistered titles, bloodline claims, or memories with verified emotional weight. Bids of firstborn children remain suspended after last season’s incident.”

A noble in the upper booths shouted, “Cowards!”

“Your complaint has been noted and appraised at six copper,” the auctioneer replied without pause. “Now, let us begin.”

The first lots were ordinary by Black Current standards.

Keys to restricted dungeons. Monster eggs. A blade that leveled by drinking lies. Three crates of mana batteries stamped with the seal of a kingdom that had denied losing any. Eli bid twice, lost once deliberately, won once on a bundle of unstable storage crystals after spotting a timing flaw in the bidder recognition wards.

When his number appeared over the dais, his fake identity shimmered.

BIDDER #319 — “MERRIT VALE, RUIN BROKER”
Current Winning Bid: 190 silver crescents

Cael leaned down. “Merrit Vale?”

“It was that or Lord Mustache.”

“A difficult choice.”

The supplies mattered. Storage crystals meant they could carry more potions and salvage. The duplicated Hollow Orchard key mattered more, but the bidding war for it climbed too fast. A veiled guild mistress bought it for three gold talents and a memory of her wedding night, extracted in a silver needle while she laughed and wept behind her mask.

Aetherfall made power expensive.

The Black Current made sure it was also degrading.

Then came the first captured power-leveling slot.

The brass cylinder rose from the mist, rotating slowly. The unconscious man inside looked younger under the dais lights, maybe seventeen. His hair drifted in amber fluid. Contribution wires pulsed faintly.

“Lot Twelve,” the auctioneer purred. “A preserved carry recipient from the Red Ladder’s eastern raid circuit. Stored contribution credit sufficient to elevate a level one initiate to approximately level fourteen, subject to class variance, blessings, curses, congenital destiny inflation, and other tedious math. Slot has been cleansed of original claimant identity.”

Eli’s Patchborn sight screamed.

Not in sound. In color.

The status pane over the cylinder glitched crimson, then split into layers.

CAPTURED POWER-LEVELING SLOT
Stored Contribution Credit: 41,300 XP
Original Claimant: ████████
Identity Cleansing: INCOMPLETE
Soul Integrity: 22%
Exploit Note: XP reservoir anchored to living claimant. Transfer will trigger level extraction cascade.

Another line flickered beneath it, visible for half a breath.

DELETION RESIDUE DETECTED
Source Type: Player Fragment
Status: Not dead. Not alive. Re-indexed.

Eli’s fingers went cold.

Nessa inhaled sharply. She could not see the pane, but healers felt suffering the way hounds smelled blood.

“Opening at five gold,” the auctioneer said.

Paddles lifted across the galleries.

“Six.”

“Eight.”

“Ten and a beast core.”

“Twelve.”

Mara stared at the cylinder with a stillness more dangerous than movement. “Tell me he’s dead.”

“He isn’t.” Eli’s voice scraped. “That’s the point.”

“Then we take him.”

“Not from the dais.”

“Eli.”

“Not from the dais,” he repeated, harder. “We need the storage route. We need staff access. We need—”

The cylinder’s occupant twitched.

His eyes opened.

For one second, he looked directly at Eli through amber fluid, through wards, through all the careful distance Eli had tried to keep between planning and outrage.

His mouth moved around a breathing tube.

No sound came out.

But the System translated intent in the corner of Eli’s vision, because the System was cruelly helpful when it wanted to be.

UNREGISTERED PARTY INVITE RECEIVED
From: ERROR: CLAIMANT NAME MISSING
Message: please

Eli’s hand clenched around his bidder token until the edges cut his palm.

“Sold,” the auctioneer said. “To the honored representative of House Vahl in booth six.”

The cylinder sank back into mist.

The boy’s eyes vanished.

Nessa reached under her scarf, fingers brushing the hidden deletion mark at her collarbone. Her face had gone bloodless.

“They did that to him,” she whispered. “What the System tried to do to me.”

Cael’s lazy amusement was gone. In its place was something bright and sharp enough to cut glass. “House Vahl funds three leveling academies.”

“Of course they do,” Eli said. “Nothing says education like liquefied teenagers.”

Mara leaned close. “Plan. Now.”

He was already building one.

Auction lots rose and fell. Eli barely watched them. Instead, he tracked staff movement beneath the dais. Every sold item descended through the mist, then transferred along a hidden rail beneath the central pit. Payment confirmations triggered blue pulses through the contract-coat auctioneer, then through ward pylons disguised as braziers.

There were four pylon anchors. Three visible guard clusters. Two watcher eels in suspended tanks under the platform, reading intent from anyone crossing the mist boundary.

And one maintenance access seam in the bone floor beneath section C, opening every time a lot with biological containment passed through.

“Storage is under us,” Eli murmured.

Cael tilted his head. “Guarded?”

“Yes.”

“Warded?”

“Badly.”

“Your kind of badly or normal badly?”

“My kind.”

Mara’s mouth curved. “So criminally stupid.”

“Optimistically exploitable.”

Nessa watched him. “Can we save them?”

There it was. Not him. Them.

Because of course there would be more.

Eli looked down at the dais. A crate of frost goblin hearts sold for a price that could have fed a village through winter. The auctioneer bowed. The crowd applauded. Above them, the rib bones disappeared into darkness, each carved name catching green fire.

“We can open the cages,” Eli said quietly. “Keeping them alive after is the harder part.”

“I can stabilize soul shear if the anchor isn’t severed,” Nessa said. “Maybe. For a few minutes.”

“I can make those minutes loud,” Mara said.

Cael smiled without warmth. “And I can make people look the wrong way.”

Eli exhaled. “Then we do this during a high-value lot. Maximum attention on the dais. Cael gets us below. Nessa triages. Mara holds anything that gets curious. I find the control lattice and break it in a way that doesn’t liquefy everyone attached.”

“Comforting specificity,” Cael said.

“I’m workshopping.”

The auctioneer clapped once.

The lights dimmed.

A low hum rolled through the rib cage, and every ward in the chamber tightened.

“Patrons,” the auctioneer said, savoring the word, “our next sequence is reserved for bidders of discerning appetite. The Black Current is proud to present acquisitions from the northern deletion front.”

Nessa stopped breathing.

Eli’s interface flickered.

Across the dais, six glass reliquaries rose from the mist. They were smaller than the cylinders, each no larger than a lantern. Inside each floated a shard of light.

Not cores. Not mana.

They looked like pieces of dawn caught in broken ice. Each shard pulsed with colors that almost formed faces, hands, silhouettes. Eli felt them before he understood them: a tug behind the sternum, a pressure in the teeth, a memory of a loading screen stuck at ninety-nine percent while something important died behind it.

The System pane appeared one letter at a time, as if reluctant.

LOT THIRTEEN: UNCLASSIFIED ASCENSION MATERIAL
Trade Name: Pale Sparks
Advertised Use: Skill acceleration, class mutation, legacy infusion
Actual Composition: ████████████
Patchborn Translation: Deleted Player Fragments
Warning: Possession violates Architect sanitation protocol.
Warning: Recognition event logged.
Warning: Recognition event intercepted.
Exploit Note: Fragment contains recoverable player metadata.

Eli forgot the crowd.

He forgot the stink of incense and blood, forgot the fake mustache itching his lip, forgot the cold brand on his wrist.

Deleted player fragments.

The words sat in his vision with the weight of a graveyard.

Players.

Not citizens. Not NPCs, if such a distinction even meant anything anymore. Players. People like him? People pulled from somewhere else? Or people the System had classified as inconvenient and scrubbed until only usable pieces remained?

One shard pulsed brighter when he looked at it.

His Patchborn class responded.

PATCHBORN RESONANCE DETECTED
Compatible Fragment: QA-ADJACENT ERROR MEMORY
Recoverable Data: 3.8%
Risk: Architect attention
Consume? Y/N

Eli’s stomach turned over.

QA-adjacent.

That could have meant anything. It could have meant nothing. The System loved categories that sounded precise until they were carving up a person.

The auctioneer drifted between the reliquaries, mirror mask reflecting six tiny trapped suns. “Recovered from sanitation breaches. Refined by specialists. Each Pale Spark offers a chance—only a chance, dear patrons, but what is greatness if not an expensive gamble?—to awaken dormant skill branches, bypass level gates, or correct unfortunate class ceilings.”

A murmur moved through the galleries like hunger given language.

Cael’s hand closed on the back of Eli’s chair. “Eli.”