The Invincible Auction House

Chapter 8: A Whisper in the Market

The morning sun spilled golden light across Rydale City, setting the cobblestones aglow and stirring the streets into life. Vendors shouted from colorful stalls, their voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony as they hawked spices, talismans, and spirit-enhancing pills. Cultivators with flowing robes and haughty expressions moved with deliberate grace, their presence parting the crowds as though they were royalty.

Adam stepped into the market square, his sharp gaze sweeping over the masses. To the average eye, it was a place of noise and clutter, but to Adam, it was a living tapestry of ambition, greed, and desperation. Every merchant, every transaction, and every whispered deal told a story—one he would soon rewrite to his advantage.

Behind him, Ren and the other two bandits walked stiffly, their discomfort in the lively crowd evident. Gone were the lawless days of their old lives; they now followed a man who turned chaos into opportunity.

"Remember," Adam said, his voice soft yet commanding, "keep your ears open. Rumors, complaints, tensions—anything that might serve us. The smallest spark can burn down a forest."

Ren nodded, though the unease never left his face. "Understood, Master Adam."

Adam's steps carried him to a talisman stall shaded by crimson cloth. Intricate paper charms, each pulsing faintly with spiritual energy, hung neatly in rows. The merchant, a wiry old man with a shrewd glint in his eye, leaned forward eagerly at Adam's approach.

"Protection talismans, young man? Wards against spirits, blessings for fortune—crafted by the finest masters." His voice oozed confidence, but Adam could sense the desperation beneath it.

Adam ran a finger over one of the talismans, feigning interest. "I'm not here for trinkets. What I need is information."

The merchant's smile faltered, replaced by wariness. "Information?"

Adam withdrew a small spirit stone from his pouch and slid it across the counter. "About the powers in this city—who runs Rydale, who controls its strings, and who's looking to cut them."

The merchant hesitated, his eyes darting to the nearby crowd before settling on the stone, greed warring with caution. After a long pause, he leaned closer and lowered his voice.

"The Rydale Merchant Guild controls most trade," he whispered. "Their leader, Harron, is shrewd and ruthless. Cross him, and you'll regret it. Then there's the Ironclad Sect—they claim to keep order, but they're just another faction fighting for power."

Adam slid another stone across the counter, his smile faint but unwavering. "And the people? Where do they stand in this conflict?"

The merchant pocketed the stones, his expression grim. "The people keep their heads down. Most don't care who's in charge, as long as they're left alone. But greed and resentment are bubbling under the surface—those willing to profit from the chaos are starting to make moves."

"Good," Adam murmured, stepping back into the crowd. "Chaos creates openings."

The day unfolded as Adam and his group wove through the market, their ears attuned to the whispers of the city. At one corner, two merchants argued over unfair prices, their voices raised for all to hear.

"That guild takes their cut of everything! What's left for us, huh?" one barked.

Nearby, a drunken cultivator slumped against a wall, muttering to no one in particular. "Ironclad Sect… hypocrites. Favoring the rich, taxing the rest of us… who's protecting the common folk?"

Adam heard it all—resentment toward the guild, bitterness aimed at the sect, and whispers of unrest that danced on the edges of conversation. He walked the market like a shadow, his presence unnoticed but his mind sharp, gathering threads of information and weaving them into a plan.

By evening, they returned to the inn. The wooden building sat on the edge of the square, its lanterns glowing dimly as night crept over the city. The innkeeper greeted them nervously, wringing his hands as Adam approached.

"Sir," the man began, his voice a nervous tremor. "I've… I've learned a few things. The Merchant Guild and the Ironclad Sect aren't on good terms. The guild accuses the sect of interfering in their disputes, while the sect claims the guild's greed undermines the city's peace."

Adam leaned against the counter, his gaze unwavering. "And the people? Where do they stand?"

The innkeeper swallowed. "Most are afraid to choose sides. But there are those—merchants, rogue cultivators—who see the conflict as an opportunity. They're waiting for someone to take the first step."

"Perfect." Adam tossed the innkeeper a small pouch, the clink of spirit stones making the man's eyes widen. "Keep listening. I'll pay well for anything useful."

The innkeeper bowed deeply, relief washing over him. "Yes, sir! Of course!"

Later that night, Adam sat alone in his room. The faint glow of a lantern flickered across his sharp features as he gazed out the window. Rydale was alive even in darkness, its streets dotted with lights, its people moving with purpose—and beneath that, chaos simmered.

The system's text flashed into view, the words glowing brightly in the dim room.

Adam leaned back in his chair, a contemplative smile tugging at his lips. "Spark a conflict… If they're already at odds, it won't take much to turn tension into fire."

He stood and crossed the room, gazing once more at the city below. The Merchant Guild and the Ironclad Sect were powerful, but power bred arrogance, and arrogance bred weakness. All Adam needed was the right push—a rumor, a lie, or a spark of truth twisted into something greater.

The next morning, Adam set his plan into motion. Ren and the others dispersed into the market, their task simple: spread whispers. Whispers of unfair guild taxes, of sect favoritism toward the wealthy, of secret deals made behind closed doors. The rumors were crafted to spread doubt and frustration, carefully laced with just enough truth to be believable.

By midday, the tension was palpable. Merchants muttered openly, cultivators grumbled among themselves, and the market's usual rhythm faltered as suspicion crept through the streets.

Adam observed from a distance, his sharp gaze drinking in every shift in expression, every raised voice. The cracks he had seen the day before were widening, and soon, something would snap.

That evening, Adam returned to the auction house, now anchored on the outskirts of Rydale like a silent sentinel. The bandits-turned-assistants had cleaned and organized the space, its jade walls polished to a mirror sheen. At its center, the glowing orb pulsed faintly, radiating the auction house's otherworldly power.

Adam stood before it, his hands clasped behind his back as he addressed the silent room. "Soon, they'll come to me willingly. The desperate, the greedy, the powerful—they'll all find their way here. And when they do, I'll be ready."

The system flared with approval.

Adam smiled, the glint in his eyes cold and resolute. Rydale would soon be his stage, and its players would dance to his tune.