The Rise of John Raymond

Chapter 49 : Missing artifacts

The room was alive with the kind of energy only money could buy. The air felt heavier with each raised bid card, every voice cutting through the hum of anticipation like a knife.

“I bid one point two million.”

The words came from somewhere near the left side of the hall, clear and certain, the bidder’s voice betraying no hesitation. Heads turned, but not for long—this was just the beginning.

“I bid one point five million.”

Another voice rose, sharper this time, competing not only for the jewelry but for the invisible status that came with claiming it. The crowd began to lean forward in their seats, their murmurs layering over one another like the buzzing of a hive.

Then it came.

“I bid three million.”

The sound hit the room like a shockwave.

The crowd froze. Even the waiters carrying champagne trays slowed, their steps faltering as eyes snapped toward the voice. It wasn’t just the number; it was the audacity. Three million for a single piece of jewelry when the bidding had only just warmed up? That wasn’t a simple purchase. That was a statement.

A ripple of whispers moved through the audience.

“Three million?” someone muttered, their tone hovering between disbelief and admiration.

“What’s she trying to prove?” another whispered, tilting their head in the direction of the bid card.

Jewellers in the room—seasoned eyes that knew the weight of rarity—were already on their phones, pitching the piece to clients who might salivate at the chance to own it. A rare piece was valuable. A rare piece publicly valued at three million was something else entirely.

Following the raised bid card with their eyes, the audience found her.

A woman cloaked entirely in red, her face hidden behind a mask. She sat alone, her posture regal, her presence undeniable. It was clear she knew everyone here, but no one seemed to know her.

Curiosity spread like smoke in the air. Who was she? Why now? Why this piece?

John noticed her too, but only faintly. His mind was somewhere else, still tangled in the memory of what he had just seen earlier—something he wasn’t yet ready to name, not even to himself.

From across the room, King’s eyes narrowed slightly. He could see John’s mood slipping. Without drawing attention, he pulled out his phone and sent a message.

What’s going on, John? You look down.

But John didn’t look at his phone. His gaze was fixed somewhere in the middle distance, his thoughts locked away.

King’s mind flickered briefly to the body, wondering if John had seen it. But speculation was dangerous, and words could plant ideas where they didn’t belong. Best to keep things light, controlled.

He gestured to a passing waiter. “Give him a drink,” King instructed. “Something strong.”

The waiter moved quickly, returning to John with a glass of whisky. Inside, folded neatly beneath the glass’s base, was a small note.

John took the glass, tipping it back in one swift motion, the burn of the whisky flooding his chest. Only after setting it down did he unfold the note.

When he read it, a faint smile crept onto his face. He lifted his gaze toward King, catching his eye, and gave the smallest nod—a silent thank you.

King’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile.

The compere’s gravel struck the podium, sharp and loud, drawing everyone back from their curiosity about the woman in red.

“Any other bid going for three point one million?” he called. “Going once. Going twice. Sold!”

The final word rang through the air, and the gravel hit again with a satisfying thud.

Ushers moved forward, their hands careful as they packed the jewelry, while a waiter approached the lady in red to arrange payment. Her stillness was almost unnerving; even in victory, she didn’t so much as tilt her head.

The crowd’s murmurs continued—shock, admiration, envy—but the compere was already turning the page.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced with renewed flair, “it’s time for the second item of the night. The Vale of Eternity. Legend has it that anyone who drinks from this vase will live forever.”

A collective gasp rolled through the audience.

Eyes widened. Postures shifted forward. Greed was a palpable thing now, glistening in every glance. Whether they believed the legend or not was irrelevant; the possibility was intoxicating.

“We are starting the bid now at ten million,” the compere declared.

The response was immediate.

“I bid ten point one,” called a man in a sharp red suit.

“I bid ten point two,” answered a woman in flowing yellow silk, her eyes darting toward the man in red as if daring him to keep up.

“I bid ten point three,” came a voice from a man in green, his hands trembling slightly. Word had it he had a sick daughter, and his tone carried the weight of desperation.

“I bid ten point four,” a young CEO said crisply, her calculation clear—immortality would mean eternal dominance over her empire.

“I bid ten point six,” another man interjected.

Then, like a clean blade slicing through the chatter, came a calm, low voice.

“I bid eleven million.”

The effect was instant.

The noise dissolved into stunned silence as heads turned toward the source.

A man dressed in a gold outfit sat near the back, his face hidden behind a black lace mask. He didn’t fidget or lean forward. He simply rested in his chair, his confidence so pronounced it almost seemed to hum around him.

Murmurs began.

“I am sure it’s Charles who needs this vase,” one of the elites whispered with a smirk.

“What do you mean by that?” another replied sharply, loyal to Charles and unwilling to hear him mocked.

No answer came.

The compere raised his voice to cut through the tension.

“Do we have eleven point one? Going once. Going twice. Sold to the man in gold!”

The ushers moved quickly. One went to handle the payment, the other to package the item. The audience strained to see if they could recognise him, but the mask and gold ensemble betrayed nothing.

The payment was handled without delay. Soon, the artifact—secured in a sleek display box—was being wheeled toward him.

Then it happened.

The waiter pushing the box stumbled. His foot caught on the corner of the carpet, and in that fraction of a second, the sealed box tilted, hit the ground, and burst open.

Gasps erupted from every corner of the room.

It wasn’t just that the box had opened—it was that it had done so far too easily, as though the seal had been tampered with. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

The worst came when the contents were revealed.

Silence crashed over the room.

Every jaw seemed to slacken. Eyes widened, fixating on the open box as if they weren’t entirely sure what they were seeing.

King’s expression fell. The devastation in his face was raw, his lips parting slightly as if to speak—but no words came.

John caught the look. Something in his chest tightened. He stepped forward without waiting for permission.

“I can take a look,” he offered.

King didn’t respond, but he didn’t stop him either.

John knelt beside the box, and when his eyes fell upon the space where the Vale of Eternity should have been, his stomach dropped. He looked up slowly, meeting King’s gaze. His mind was already racing, turning over questions he didn’t yet dare to ask aloud.

Had the killing earlier been connected to this? Or was this an entirely separate deception? And if it was connected, whose game was this really—someone else’s, or King’s?

He had only just met the man, and so far King had been generous, almost protective. But generosity could be a mask. There was something beneath the surface here. Something sharp.

The man in gold was watching from his seat, reading the crowd’s faces with growing suspicion. Their expressions were not those of people witnessing a mere accident—they were the looks of people watching a promise shatter.

He stood abruptly.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice tight.

No one answered.

He strode toward the box himself, his movements controlled but brimming with an edge of urgency. When he reached it and looked inside, his face changed.

The breath seemed to leave him all at once.

The anger was there, yes, but so was something deeper—a sense of loss so heavy it made his shoulders drop.

He had hoped to restore his family with that artifact. And now, it was gone.