CHAPTER 144: AN AUDIENCE WITH THE COLLECTOR

Nox looked at the black envelope in his hand, then at the hooded attendant. ’A private audience? Annoying. This is going to waste time.’

Vexia stepped forward, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade, and she placed herself between Nox and the attendant. "We will not be separated. We attend as a group, or we do not attend at all."

Elisa just grinned, cracking her knuckles. "A trap? Or an invitation to a private party? I say we go!"

The attendant did not even look at the two elves, and his hooded gaze remained fixed on Nox. "The Collector’s invitation is for the Candidate, Nox, alone. The offer is not a negotiation."

’So he knows my name, interesting.’ Nox looked at the spire, then back at his companions. Vexia was right, it was obviously a trap, but it was also an opportunity. This Collector person was a major player, and getting a direct line to him this early in the game was a huge advantage. Refusing would be the safe move, but safe was inefficient.

"It’s fine," Nox said, pushing past Vexia. "I’ll go. You guys wait here in line. If I’m not back in ten minutes, just assume I got a better offer and start the party without me."

Serian grabbed his arm. "Nox, no. It is too dangerous. We do not know what he is."

He looked at her hand on his arm, then met her gaze. "That’s the point. I’m going to find out."

He pulled his arm free and followed the attendant, leaving the three elves standing in the tense, silent line. The attendant led him away from the main entrance, toward a small, unmarked door at the base of the lighthouse.

’Liona, analysis on this guy.’

[Designation: Collector’s Attendant. Level: 85. Threat: High. Note: Subject is under the influence of a powerful geas, ensuring absolute loyalty.]

’Level 85 for a doorman? Okay, this Collector guy isn’t messing around.’

The attendant opened the door, revealing a narrow, spiraling staircase lit by glowing, floating crystals. "The Collector awaits you at the top. Do not keep him waiting."

Nox walked up the stairs, his footsteps the only sound in the oppressive quiet. The air grew thick with a pressure that was not magical, but psychological. It was the feeling of being watched, of being weighed and measured. When he reached the top, he found himself in a small, circular room. The walls were lined with shelves, but instead of books, they were filled with strange, glowing artifacts, items that hummed with a power that made his own void core stir.

Another attendant, identical to the one downstairs, stood by a large, ornate door. "He will see you now."

The door swung open, revealing a large, opulent chamber. The room was a stark contrast to the rest of the lighthouse. Rich carpets covered the floor, and the walls were adorned with what looked like masterpieces of art from a dozen different worlds. In the center of the room, behind a large desk carved from a single piece of black, star-flecked obsidian, sat a man.

He was a human, or at least he looked like one. He wore a simple, impeccably tailored dark suit and had short, neatly combed silver hair. He looked less like a mythical boogeyman and more like a high-powered CEO. He was looking at a floating, transparent data screen, his fingers moving across it with a practiced ease.

"Candidate Nox," the man said without looking up, his voice calm and cultured. "Welcome. Please, have a seat." A comfortable-looking chair materialized from the shadows in front of the desk.

Nox did not sit. He just stood there, his hands in his pockets, and looked around the room. ’So this is the big bad Collector. He looks... normal.’

The Collector finally dismissed his screen with a wave of his hand and looked at Nox. His eyes were a pale, piercing blue, and they seemed to see right through him. "You are wondering if I am as powerful as the stories say. The answer is yes. And no. Power is a crude metric. I prefer... influence."

"I’m not here for a philosophy lesson," Nox said. "You wanted to see me. I’m here. What do you want?"

The Collector smiled, a small, polite expression that did not reach his eyes. "Direct. I appreciate that. What I want, Candidate Nox, is a partnership." He steepled his fingers, his gaze intense. "The World’s Scripture, this ’System’ as you players call it, is not a game of chance. It is a narrative. A story being written. And every story needs a protagonist."

"And you think that’s me?"

"I think you have the potential," The Collector corrected. "You possess a unique variable, a power that is not native to this world, or even the one that has merged with it. This ’void’ you command... it is a blank page. A power with the potential to overwrite the story."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "I am a connoisseur of stories, Nox. I have watched empires rise and fall, and I have seen gods turn to dust. But this story, the one being written now, is the most interesting one I have ever encountered. And I wish to have a hand in its telling."

"So you’re a glorified editor," Nox said. "What’s that got to do with me?"

"I wish to invest in you," The Collector stated simply. "I will provide you with information, with resources. I will clear your path of minor obstacles. All I ask in return is that you continue to be... interesting. That you continue to break the rules and defy the expected narrative."

’So he wants to be my sponsor.’ It was a tempting offer. Information was power, and this man clearly had a lot of it. But there was a catch. There was always a catch.

"And what happens if I say no?"

The Collector’s polite smile did not change. "Then you will be just another character in the story, subject to the whims of the plot. You will struggle, you will fight, and you will, in all likelihood, die a pointless and uninteresting death." He gestured to the door. "The auction is about to begin. It is a gathering of the story’s main characters. Many of them are far stronger than you. Many of them will see your three Flags as an easy prize. Without my aid, your chances of surviving the night are, statistically speaking, quite low."

It was a threat, delivered with the calm, detached air of a weather forecast.

Nox looked at the man, at the calm, absolute confidence in his pale blue eyes. He was not a warrior like Elisa, or a mage like Vexia. He was something else, something older and more dangerous. He was a player who was not playing the same game as everyone else.

"What’s the first piece of information?" Nox asked.

The Collector’s smile widened just a fraction. "An excellent choice. Your first piece of information is this: the ’King-Maker’ scenario is not about collecting the most Flags. That is a misdirection for the less discerning players." He brought his data screen back up, showing a complex chart. "The true objective is to hold a ’Royal Flag’. There are only three in this entire region. A Royal Flag cannot be created, only won from its initial bearer. One of them is already here, in this city."

He swiped the screen, and it showed the image of a man, a hulking brute of a man with a wild beard and an axe that looked bigger than Nox.

"His name is Ragnar. He is a berserker from a northern clan. He is a simple man who believes that strength is the only thing that matters. He is powerful, but he is predictable. He is your first true rival."

"And the other two Royal Flags?"

"That information will cost you," The Collector said. "Everything has a price. For now, simply survive the auction. And try not to be too... disruptive. I have a reputation to maintain." He waved a hand dismissively. "You may go. Enjoy the show."

Nox turned and walked out of the room, his mind racing. A Royal Flag. A true objective. The game was more complex than it seemed. He walked back down the stairs and out the small door, rejoining his companions just as the main doors to the lighthouse were beginning to open.

"What did he want?" Serian asked, her voice tight with worry.

"He offered me a job," Nox said, his eyes scanning the crowd of Candidates who were now starting to file into the lighthouse.

Elisa looked at him, her hand on her warhammer. "And?"

"I took it."

The inside of the lighthouse was a single, massive, circular chamber. Rows of simple stone benches were arranged in a circle around a raised platform in the center. The air was thick with tension and the low hum of a hundred different powerful auras clashing. Nox, Serian, and Elisa found a spot on one of the back benches, content to just observe.

The Collector appeared on the central platform, not with a flash of magic, but by simply walking out of a shadow. He was dressed in the same simple, dark suit, and he surveyed the crowd of killers, mercenaries, and aspiring kings with the calm, detached air of a seasoned auctioneer.

"Welcome, Candidates," his voice echoed through the silent chamber, amplified by some unseen magic. "Welcome to the first of my many entertainments. You are all here for one reason: to increase your power, to elevate your standing in this new and brutal world. And I am here to facilitate that."

He gestured, and a single, tattered Flag, its cloth stained with what looked like dried blood, materialized in the air beside him. "The rules are simple. Each Flag will be sold to the highest bidder. The currency, of course, is other Flags. The winner of each bid will immediately transfer ownership of their payment-Flags to me. All sales are final."

He paused, letting the implications sink in. This wasn’t just an auction; it was a high-stakes poker game where the chips were the very keys to survival.

"Let us begin," The Collector said. "This first item belonged to a rather unfortunate mage who believed a fireball spell was a sufficient defense against a Dwarven war party. It was not. We will start the bidding at one Flag."

A Dwarf in the front row, his beard braided with iron rings, immediately raised a mailed fist. "One!"

"I have one Flag from the Ironbeard clan," The Collector announced. "Do I hear two?"

A woman with the tell-tale pointed ears and dark skin of an Ashen Elf, though not one of Mela’s clan, raised a slender hand. "Two."

The bidding was fast and brutal. The price quickly rose to four Flags, then five. It was a clear demonstration of power. The Candidates with more Flags were establishing their dominance, forcing the weaker players to either risk everything or fold.

"This is insane," Serian whispered, her eyes wide. "They are trading their very lives for a single extra point."

"It’s a shortcut," Nox replied, his own gaze scanning the crowd, memorizing faces. "Why risk fighting ten battles when you can win them all with one big purchase?"

The first Flag sold for six. The losing bidders glared at the winner, a silent promise of a later, more violent transaction. The Collector simply smiled and produced the next Flag.

The auction continued for an hour. Flags were won and lost. Fortunes were made and gambled away in a matter of seconds. Nox just watched, his mind a cold, calculating machine. He was not just watching the bids; he was watching the bidders. He saw the pride of the winners, the desperation of the losers, the cold, predatory hunger of those who were just waiting for the auction to end so the real hunt could begin.

He identified Ragnar, the Berserker The Collector had mentioned. He was impossible to miss, a mountain of a man who sat on a reinforced bench near the front, his Royal Flag—a bloody banner with the image of a snarling wolf—planted firmly at his feet. He hadn’t bid once. He was just watching, a look of profound boredom on his face, as if this was all just a child’s game.

Then, The Collector brought out the final item of the night. It was not a single Flag. It was a bundle of ten, tied together with a simple rope.

"And now, for our final lot of the evening," The Collector announced, a flicker of genuine excitement in his voice. "A windfall. Ten Flags, taken from a rather ambitious but foolish guild that attempted to establish their own little kingdom on my doorstep. A fatal miscalculation on their part."

The entire chamber went quiet. Ten Flags. It was enough to instantly catapult any player to the top of the leaderboard.

"The bidding will start at twenty Flags."

A collective gasp went through the crowd. The price was astronomical. It was a bid that only the absolute strongest, wealthiest players could even consider making.

Ragnar the Berserker finally moved. He leaned forward, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his bearded face. "Twenty," he growled, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through the stone floor.

The Collector smiled. "I have twenty from the Wolf of the North. Do I hear twenty-one?"

The room was silent. No one else had that many Flags. No one else dared to challenge the Berserker.

"Going once," The Collector said, his voice smooth. "Going twice..."

"Twenty-one."

Every head in the chamber snapped toward the back.

Nox stood up, his voice calm and clear in the sudden, shocked silence. Serian and Elisa just stared at him, their own expressions a perfect mirror of the crowd’s disbelief.

’What is he doing?! We don’t have twenty-one Flags!’ Serian thought, her heart pounding.

Ragnar turned in his seat, his eyes, the color of chips of ice, locking onto Nox. His bored expression was gone, replaced by a look of pure, murderous rage.

The Collector’s smile widened. "I have twenty-one," he announced, his voice full of theatrical glee. "From the Candidate in the back. A bold move. A very bold move indeed." He looked at Ragnar. "Will you be making another bid, Lord Ragnar?"

Ragnar did not speak. He just stood up, his massive frame seeming to fill the entire chamber. He pointed a single, thick finger at Nox.

"You," he snarled. "You are dead."

Then he turned and stalked out of the lighthouse, his Royal Flag slung over his shoulder. He did not need the ten Flags. He would just take the twenty-one from Nox’s corpse later.

The Collector let out a soft chuckle. "It seems we have a winner. The lot of ten Flags goes to the mysterious Candidate, Nox. For the price of twenty-one." He looked at Nox, a knowing glint in his pale blue eyes. "You may pay me now."