Peaceful Life System: I only need to live peacefully-Chapter 169: Rudolf (1)

It looked... plain.

A longsword of average length, a muted steel hilt, and a grip wrapped in ordinary leather. No gilded pommel. No ceremonial etching. The kind of blade one might overlook in a soldier’s rack.

But then the light caught the runes.

They seemed dormant—until they weren’t. They flickered faintly as if each breath in the room pulled at them.

Whispers began emerging. At first, it was quiet, as if amongst one another. But slowly, they started becoming louder and louder.

"That’s a soul binding mechanism—"

"Impossible. These things have not been seen in ages—"

"I’ve only ever read stories of this in the Fifth Academy—"

"So this is what she meant earlier. If you had to save money, you’re broke already. There is no chance for you."

In one of the highest boxes, a masked figure leaned forward, speaking into a small voice crystal.

Below, the auctioneer said nothing.

She simply gestured to the sword.

"This item is submitted anonymously. It carries no provenance. Its soul matrix is locked. It cannot be appraised without triggering binding protocols. Attempted replicas have failed. As such, The Gavel offers no guarantees—only the object itself."

"Opening bid begins at five thousand gold coins. Minimum Increments of 500 gold."

No movement.

"Six," came a voice.

"Seven-five," called another almost instantly.

The tension fractured. Voices echoed across the tiers.

"Eight."

"Ten."

"Twelve thousand."

From his seat, Riku watched them not with pride—but with calculation. His expression didn’t change. But Sherry, seated beside him now, grinned slightly.

"This is going to be fun," she muttered.

Below, the bids continued.

"Fifteen."

"Eighteen."

"Twenty-one."

The crowd hadn’t surged, but it had focused. No flailing arms. No dramatic shouts. Just measured voices and firm numbers.

"Twenty-five thousand."

The auctioneer lifted a single hand. "We are at twenty-five. Do I hear twenty-seven?"

For the first time, silence.

A few heads turned.

Then, from the Third Balcony, a woman’s voice, calm and clear: "Thirty thousand."

It was not a new bid.

It was a message.

All eyes turned.

The auctioneer inclined her head, acknowledging the bid. "Thirty thousand. Going once."

Silence.

"Going twice."

A breath hung in the air.

Then—

"Forty."

The voice came from the First Balcony.

Even Sherry sat up at that.

"Did he just jump ten thousand?" she whispered.

The jump to forty thousand gold sent a shockwave through the hall. All eyes turned to the First Balcony, where Lord Valgar’s representative stood, his arms crossed, a smug look on his face.

The woman on the Third Balcony did not hesitate. "Forty-five thousand." Her voice was as calm and clear as before.

"Fifty thousand," the man from the First Balcony retorted instantly. He then added, his voice laced with a clear threat, "And Lord Valgar will remember who his friends are on this night."

A low murmur swept through the crowd. The blatant use of a Darklord’s name to intimidate bidders was a common, if crude, tactic. Many potential bidders who might have considered joining the fray now sank back into their chairs.

The Violet Emissary, who had been watching silently from the stage, raised a single, elegant finger.

"A reminder to our honored patrons," she said, her voice quiet but cutting through the hall like a shard of ice. "The only name that carries weight within these walls is that of The Shadowed Gavel. All bids are welcome. All threats are... noted."

Her gaze lingered on the First Balcony for a heartbeat too long. The message was unmistakable. Lord Valgar’s man flushed, then gave a stiff, angry nod and sat down. The power play had failed.

The woman on the Third Balcony pressed her advantage. "Fifty-five thousand."

The necromancer, who had been silent, suddenly spoke again. "Sixty thousand. And I will add a perfectly preserved Soul-Gem from a fallen Shadow Stalker. A rare component."

Kaelith, watching from a side entrance, frowned. "He’s bartering. That complicates the valuation."

The Violet Emissary was unmoved. "The Gavel deals in gold only," she stated flatly. "Convert your trinket to coin, or do not bid."

The necromancer hissed in frustration. "Seventy thousand, then!"

The bids continued their vicious climb. Eighty thousand. Ninety. One hundred thousand, from Lord Valgar’s man again. The air was thick with tension.

Then, a new voice entered the fray. It came from a private box near the top tier, a voice old and measured. "One hundred thousand gold. And a royal writ granting exclusive mining rights to the Yearlong Peaks for one year."

The hall fell silent again. This was more than just money. It was a political power play.

Lord Valgar’s man stood up, his face red with fury. "That is an insult! You dare to offer land that borders my Lord’s domain?"

The Violet Emissary raised her hand again. "The offer is unconventional, but its value is substantial. We will accept the bid."

Before the bidding could devolve into a political squabble, another voice cut through the chaos. It was calm, clear, and came from a cloaked figure sitting alone on the main floor, someone no one had paid any attention to until now.

"Five hundred thousand gold."

Absolute, deafening silence.

Every head in the hall, from the lowest tier to the most exclusive balconies, swiveled to stare at the lone figure. The jump was so absurd, so monumental, that it broke the very logic of the auction. It wasn’t a bid; it was a declaration of absolute victory.

Lord Valgar’s man stared, his mouth hanging open. The woman on the Third Balcony simply sank back into her chair. The old noble who had offered mining rights let out a choked sound.

The Violet Emissary herself seemed surprised for the first time. A flicker of genuine shock crossed her features before being replaced by a professional calm. She looked at the lone bidder, then at the rest of the silent hall.

"Five hundred thousand gold," she announced, her voice ringing with finality. "Going once. Going twice." She didn’t even bother with a third call. She brought her small, black gavel down with a sharp crack.

"Sold."

"That will be all for the auction, please have a good day."

As people started to leave, in their private lounge, Sherry stared, utterly speechless. "Did... did that just happen?"

Riku, however, leaned back in his chair, a faint, satisfied smile on his face. "It did," he said. "And it went exactly as I expected." ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

He had no interest in who won the sword. The chaos, the power plays, the astronomical price—it had all served its purpose. It had established the sword’s immense value, and by extension, his own. It had made him a person of interest to the Gavel.

A few minutes later, the door to their lounge opened. It was Magister Kaelith.

"Master Riku," he said, bowing low, his face a mixture of awe and nervous energy. "An... extraordinary result. The funds will be transferred immediately."

"Good," Riku said. "And the information I requested?"

"Yes," Kaelith said, his voice dropping. "I found the record. But... there is a complication. We need to discuss this. The Violet emissary is waiting to meet you."

"Then let’s not keep her waiting," Riku said, standing.

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