"So… you want me to become your backer—a hidden sponsor?" Ulter asked. He took a sip of tea. Although the man seemed lighthearted and jolly, he made a point of only serving tea to himself. There was no hospitality offered to Pell. Even now, there were several of his noble guards, dressed in their fine black suits and insignia's watching his every move.

Pell couldn't help but think that they all knew what lay beneath his cloak. None of them were hostile to him, so maybe not. It was nerve-wracking, regardless.

"Yes, I've heard that you don't enjoy trifling with other nobles, correct? That you'd rather avoid the troubles," Pell responded, motioning with his gloved hand.

Ulter hummed, swirling the tea in his cup. "I suppose I do have that sort of reputation among my peers. And perhaps it's not undeserved. Men who collect enemies tend to find their coffins faster than their fortunes."

"Then you and I have that in common," Pell replied evenly. "I don't want war, either. I just want to make sure a certain bastard walks away humiliated."

That earned a low chuckle from Ulter. "Hooh. You say that against a baron so brazenly, Mr. Pell. I do wonder—what makes you think cursing another baron in my presence is a wise idea? We nobles are… quite acquainted with one another."

Pell didn't flinch at the provocation. "You two seem to be aiming for the same item, correct? Word of it's already circling through the bars. I happened to overhear some talk. The main point being that you'd back out if push came to shove against Amberdean."

Ulter's mustache twitched upward in mild amusement. "My, my… do the rumors paint me as that much of a pushover? Seems I'll need to tidy up my reputation a bit."

He didn't deny it, Pell noted. That was something.

"Even if you are acquainted," Pell continued, "I didn't hear anything about you two being on friendly terms. At least not of the sort to send each other polite warnings. So, I doubt you'd tell him about someone planning to outbid him. And with Amberdean's personality, I doubt he'd make friends who wouldn't love to stab him in the back."

Ulter set his cup down with a soft click. "You have a sharp tongue for a merchant, Mr. Pell. Dangerous, too. But I appreciate honesty—it lets me know what your intentions are." He leaned back, eyes narrowing on Pell's cloaked face. "So tell me, Mr. Pell. What do you want from me?"

Here it is.

"I want to infuriate Amberdean. He and I have a long-standing grudge. I heard he's going after an item at tomorrow's auction, the same one that you're after. The problem is, you'd likely withhold your bid if he went for it, correct?"

"Possibly." Ulter's fingers drummed the arm of his chair.

"If that happens," Pell continued, "Amberdean gets the item. I don't want that. You want the item, I'm sure, but not the trouble that comes with tangling with him. So—here's the proposal: you quietly fund me to bid on your behalf. I'll take the heat in public. If I win, the item goes to you cleanly. Your name stays spotless. Any scandal or fury rests on me. Even if you sent a servant of yours to bid discreetly, I'm sure it could be traced back."

Ulter's smile thinned. "And why exactly should I hand you my funds? I don't know you. I don't trust you. For all I know, you're a bold pauper with an empty cloak. You are even hiding your face. I could conscript a broken fool from the slums and accomplish the same. I have no assurance that you couldn't be traced back to me, either."

Pell nodded, expecting the pushback. "That's fair. I can't give you any more guarantee but my word that I wouldn't be traced back to you. I do, however, have something else to entice the deal."

"Hoh? And what would that be?" Ulter asked.

"I have an item I plan to put up at the auction. Extremely rare. Highly profitable. If you agree to this deal, I'm willing to give you a cut—five percent."

The noble raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "A rare item, you say? And you're only willing to part with five percent? Interesting. I'm curious, though. How much money do you think I have?"

Pell pretended to consider. "Hmm… I heard you're one of the bigger players in this upcoming auction. I'll assume several dozen platinum. Maybe a hundred platinum?"

Ulter stroked his mustache. "You think I have around a hundred platinum, and you're still only willing to part with five percent for your item? It must be quite valuable." He frowned. "Why me, then? Why not bid on the item yourself if you seem so well-heeled?"

Pell shook his head. "Although I have a rare item, I lack the reach to raise public interest. Especially since I'd be joining the auction late—I won't have time to seed rumors or marshal bidders. I might not need your backing to outbid Amberdean, but this is a security measure in case the item undersells. I need you to provide funds just in case."

"So you want me to spread news of your item?"

"Yes. I know that is short notice—"

"Quite. There is less than 24 hours for the auction. Even if I were to gather my servants and speak of the item myself, there is a limit to how much news would spread."

Pell nodded. "Of course. But the item itself might not be too enticing for those here in the first layer. But it's sellability multiplies tenfold for those above us."

That made Ulter pay a bit more attention.

"You've piqued my curiosity. What is this item?"

Pell pulled out a small pill. "It is called the Chilled-Soul Cleansing Pill. You might not have heard of it. I doubt many here in the first layer have. Maybe not even in the second layer. The market price is according to my appraisal skill is a minimum of 10 platinum. However, it hasn't been on the market for centuries. As you might know, appraisal prices are based on the average of their last listed prices. Considering how long its been—its rarity has increased by multitudes."

Ulter leaned forward to look closer at the pill. He waved his hand to his nearest servant. "Bring me my appraisal monocle."

Appraisal Monocles, Pell thought. An item that could mimic the merchant's appraisal skill, up to a certain tier.

A servant hurried off and returned a moment later, carrying a small silver-lined case. Inside were a pair of delicate golden monocles set with faintly glowing circuits.

Ulter slipped them on, adjusting the frame across his mustache and peering at the pill resting in Pell's gloved palm. A faint shimmer passed through the lenses, and his expression shifted subtly, but enough for Pell to catch it.

"My word…" Ulter murmured. "Appraisal confirms that this is a Chilled-Soul Cleansing Pill. Tier: Bronze. Rank: A minus. Price…" His brows rose. "…price at ten platinum."

He leaned back, eyes narrowing with fascination and calculation all at once. "That valuation alone would cause a stir among collectors, even if half of them thought it exaggerated. And you're certain it works as described?"

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"Completely," Pell said without hesitation. "It purges the Chilled-Soul ailment completely with enough doses. Not a temporary fix, not suppression—a cure. Just as the system describes. The system never lies."

Ulter folded his hands, considering it. "What exactly is this ailment?"

Pell explained the ailment. He also told him about how the other suppression methods cost gold coins and were only temporary; while cures could go upwards to diamond coins.

At the mention of diamond coins, the noble's eyes thinned with focus and interest.

Pell saw the hook sink in. He pressed. "You know what that means, don't you? Even if this pill performs modestly here, whoever holds it could resell at the upper-layer auctions for unimaginable profit. You could set the opening bid at a single diamond coin and still have vultures fighting for it."

Ulter exhaled through his nose, gaze distant. "Even I," he admitted quietly, "do not possess a diamond coin to my name."

Pell smiled beneath his hood—small, controlled. "Exactly. This pill's a wildcard. Its value will shift depending on who's in the room and how desperate they are. The better you spread the rumor, the higher that ceiling climbs."

Ulter's eyes flicked back toward him, glinting beneath the soft lamplight. "Do you not fear," he said mildly, "that I could simply kill you now and take the pill for myself?"

The temperature in the room seemed to dip. The guards tensed, shifting ever so slightly—hands brushing the hilts of sheathed blades.

Pell didn't flinch. He simply raised his hand and, with a small motion, let the pill vanish back into his inventory. "Because I hold its recipe," he said evenly. "And as far as I know, only I and my… associate can make more. The ailment sometimes requires multiple doses. So one pill without the means to replenish it?" He shrugged. "A waste. Work with me though, and you wouldn't just own one, but instead, you'd have access to a supply chain. A friendly one. You hate conflict, right?"

"You're willing to part and split up more of these?" he asked.

"A few more. I of course, need to spread the reputation of these out there. I'd rather not bother with advertisement myself. That's where you'd come in. Do all my… 'dirty work,' as they say."

The man leaned back again, expression unreadable save for the faint furrow between his brows. "Conflict is… unprofitable, most of the time," he murmured. "Still, you speak boldly for a man whose life currently hangs on my curiosity."

"I've gambled with worse odds," Pell said. "And I'm betting you're smarter than the average cutthroat."

A quiet hum left Ulter as he thought.

Then Pell added, almost casually, "Also—my associate is a noble you really don't want to anger."

One eyebrow arched on the man's face. "Really, now?"

Pell nodded. "A noble far above anyone in this layer's reach. One word from them, and half the petty lords in the first layer would vanish overnight. If they wished, they could erase this city from the map."

That got a reaction. Ulter's genial face hardened a degree, his tone losing its rigidity. "That much influence, and yet they require a merchant's help to move coin? Odd balance, wouldn't you say?"

Pell spread his hands slightly. "Power doesn't always come with wealth. They only recently came into power—no heirlooms, no vaults, no inherited estates. Just strength. And kindness."

Ulter regarded him for a long, thoughtful moment. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint tick of a clock and the low hiss of the hearth.

Finally, he gave a slow nod. "A kind noble with overwhelming power, a merchant cloaked in mystery, and a pill worth more than a diamond coin." His mustache twitched upward again in that familiar half-smile. "Quite the tale, Mr. Pell. And yet… I find myself intrigued."

He steepled his fingers. "Very well. I'll back your play. My agents will begin circulating whispers about your miracle cure before dawn. If it's truly as rare as you claim, it'll reach every collector and church envoy within a hundred miles."

Pell inclined his head. "And the funds?"

Ulter gestured lightly to one of his attendants. "A modest reserve will be prepared, enough for your 'security measure,' as you call it. Enough to even overbid for the item if need be. Leave your address here and I'll have someone send you the funds in the morning."

He smiled once more, the warmth returning to his tone but not to his eyes. "But understand this, Mr. Pell—if you've lied to me, even a kind noble won't save you from what comes next."

Pell's jaw tightened faintly. "Fair enough. I'll see you at the auction."

A servant came over with a paper and pen. Pell wrote down the name of the inn he was staying at. Once that was done, Pell stood and turned to leave. Ulter's voice followed him, smooth and unhurried. "Oh, and Pell?"

He paused in the doorway.

"Do make sure you win. I'd hate to see that bravado wasted."

Pell left Ulter's estate just past midnight.

The city had quieted now. Lamplight flickered in puddles, the drunkards were gone, and even the guards thinned to their usual patrols. His boots clicked against cobblestone as he made his way through the sleeping streets, the faint hum of mana lamps the only sound keeping him company.

He adjusted his hood as he neared the inn. The air was cold, dry enough to make his bones creak faintly beneath the cloak. The thought of tomorrow stirred something restless in his chest—a mix of unease and anticipation.

Inside, the inn was still and dim. The old clerk at the counter had dozed off against his ledger, quill still in hand. Pell climbed the stairs quietly, passing the narrow hallway of rooms until he reached Enya's door.

No sound came from inside.

He frowned, tilting his head slightly before summoning the party menu with a thought.

Her name appeared.

That meant she was within range. If she were still in the dungeon, then it would have listed him alone.

Good.

She at least listened for once.

He moved two doors down to his own room, slipped inside, and shut the door behind him. The room was dark except for the faint moonlight bleeding in through the window.

His thoughts drifted to tomorrow's auction—to Amberdean. That smug, bloated bastard who had turned Eiyuria into a graveyard of lies. Pell could almost see his face, red and furious, when he realized he'd been outbid. He almost wanted to laugh.

Almost.

Instead, his skeletal jaw tightened. He probably won't even show up in person, Pell thought. Too cowardly for that. He'll send one of his lapdogs and just watch from his estate.

Still, the idea of bleeding him dry—of watching him lose what he wanted to gain—was enough to make Pell's soul-flames burn just a little brighter.

"Enjoy the auction, you stupid bastard," he muttered under his breath.

He sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the window until the light in his eyes dimmed to a steady, patient glow.

Morning came bright and polished, sunlight spilling through the tall windows of Ulter's temporary estate.

"Did you deliver the funds to the skeleton?" Ulter asked from behind his desk, his voice calm, but tinged with excitement.

The servant standing before him bowed slightly. "Yes, my lord. Four platinum coins, as instructed. The pouch was left under his name at the Merchant's Guild counter this morning. Our agents will keep an eye on him and ensure he doesn't attempt to flee."

Ulter nodded, swirling his tea absently. "Good. And the matter of the rumor?"

"Already in motion, my lord. The auction's registrar agreed to list the Chilled-Soul Cleansing Pill so long as it's submitted at least two hours before the event. Notices under your name have just reached several noble houses, and at least two auction hunters from the third layer have expressed interest. I believe a few more will respond back throughout the day."

Ulter smiled faintly. "Excellent. And what of the second layer? Has Fainelad been notified?"

The servant hesitated. "There's… an issue, my lord."

Ulter's eyes lifted. "Issue?"

"All long-range communication with the second layer has gone silent. Attempts at contact through crystals and projection channels have failed. Even teleportation access is being denied in both directions."

For the first time, Ulter set his teacup down completely. "Denied? By whom?"

"We're not certain. The guild relays say it's a system-wide lockdown, not a localized one. No explanation has been given. It seems the Adventurer Guild's Guild Master has been acting quite nervous in the past couple of days."

A quiet pause followed, with only the ticking of the clock filling the silence.

"Curious…" Ulter murmured, leaning back in his chair. "Layer-wide sanctioning like this rarely occurs. The last time it happened was roughly nine years ago when a demon gate opened near the Kail mountains. Took them roughly two weeks to seal the thing. I wonder if it's reopened."

The servant bowed again. "Shall I continue monitoring for any developments?"

"Yes," Ulter said softly, eyes distant. "Keep listening. Whatever's happening up there… I suspect we'll be hearing echoes of it soon."

For some reason, Ulter's mind questioned his belief that demons were responsible. There would have been recruitment notices, a request for adventurers or War Paragons in other layers to help with sealing the gate. A noble like himself would have had first notice of such things happening. That's how it had been on the first day of warp closure years ago. Yet now—he hadn't been notified.

What truly, was going on?

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