The ramen shop’s TV screen buzzed with cheap graphics and fake urgency.

“Breaking: Did a man in Seoul really cast a fireball?”
“Social media divided: is this CGI, magic, or a new terrorist threat?”

Yoon Jiyon slurped noodles slowly while watching a panel of experts argue in boxes across the screen.

One, an internet culture analyst, was visibly sweating.

“It's either a clever marketing stunt, or someone’s hacked the thermal sensors in a very elaborate way—”
“What about the phone interface?” the anchor asked. “The glowing gold UI—”

Jiyon tuned them out.

He’d seen this already. Not this exact panel. Not these words. But the shape of it. The tone of the moment. The scramble to disprove what was now already true.

The video had been mirrored a hundred times already.
Then slowed down.
Then enhanced.
Then autotuned.

One version had his voice pitched down like a demon:

“I paid one finger for this. Your turn.”

That one was trending on three platforms already.

Of course, they didn’t know his name.
Not yet.

The stream had been routed through ten dummy accounts, all tied to burner phones bought with expired crypto wallets. Nothing traceable. No ID. Just a headline:

“First Public Spell Cast — Real or Hoax?”

And that was all he needed.

He didn’t want fame.
He wanted timing.

Because he knew exactly what happened next.

The first real public spell drew in the dreamers, the sceptics, and the monsters. The second auction item would appear not on a screen, but in a whisper. A private listing accessible only to one registered bidder.

A teenage hacker. Username: KZero.

Eighteen years old. Lived alone above a shuttered pawn shop in Yongsan. Found the Auction through raw packet sniffing. Somehow, brute-forced a backdoor into the private bidding servers. Won something he should’ve never touched.

He didn’t even survive long enough to show it off.

But Jiyon remembered the name of the item:

Soul-Cutting Blade (Cursed | Unique Tier)

It wasn’t powerful. Not immediately.

But it whispered.

It grew.

And in time, it would become the first Legendary-tier item tied to a conscious weapon — one that could bond with a host and cut through divine armour.

Jiyon pushed aside his empty bowl and stood.

Outside, people were yelling. Filming. Reenacting the fireball moment in alleyways with lighters and deodorant cans.

The world had seen magic.
They just hadn’t seen its price yet.

They would.

And if he moved fast enough—

They wouldn’t see him coming.

Yongsan still smelled like burned plastic and old ambition.

It had once been Seoul’s tech resale heart — before the Auction economy turned every USB drive into a potential cursed artefact. Pawn shops went under. Hackers went underground. The smart ones stayed quiet.

KZero wasn’t smart.

Yoon Jiyon turned down an alley behind a shuttered repair shop and climbed the iron stairs to the second floor. He knew the keypad code by heart. It had been posted in a leaked death forum three years from now, under the title:

“Found the Soulblade Guy’s hideout. It’s still red inside.”

Back then, it had taken a hazmat team to get in.

Today, the door creaked open with a flick of his wrist.

Inside, the apartment looked like a tech junkyard. Screens. Broken monitors. Open laptops. Cables like vines choke the floor. It smelled faintly of canned coffee, overheating lithium batteries, and carpet mildew.

The boy was there, hunched at his desk, hoodie up, mouse twitching.

KZero.

Real name: Park Hamin.
Barely eighteen. Twitch reflexes. Zero social skills. A genius in the worst possible way.

He didn’t look up.

Didn’t even notice the door open.

Because the phone in his hand was glowing.

[AUCTION SYSTEM: Private Bid Invitation: Park Hamin]
[Item: Soul-Cutting Blade (Cursed)]
[Bid Requirement: Three Memories | Confirm?]

Jiyon stepped forward slowly, silently.

Three memories. That had been the cost. Hamin had chosen:

• His first kiss

• His mother’s voice

• The name of his dead dog

He wouldn’t even know what he’d given up.

Jiyon could’ve stopped it. Knocked the phone away. Pulled the plug.

He didn’t.

Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out his System-linked phone — already cloned with Hamin’s bidder credentials.

He tapped the screen once.

[Override Token: Active]
[Soul-Cutting Blade — Transfer Target: Yoon Jiyon]
[Bid Interception Confirmed.]

Hamin blinked.

The glow on his phone dimmed.

“...what?” he mumbled, confused.

He looked up, eyes unfocused, lips parting like a diver surfacing into air that no longer remembered him.

“What was I—?”

He never finished the thought.

The Auction Item materialised in Jiyon’s hand: a long, curved dagger with no reflection. It shimmered like it hated being seen. The air around it buzzed with nausea, like a hungover ghost trying to scream.

[Item Acquired: Soul-Cutting Blade (Cursed)]
[Host Synchronization Failed: User Rejection Detected]

Jiyon gripped the handle.
The knife whispered.

It didn’t speak in words. It showed images.

Ash. Suffering. Power.
The feeling of slicing someone’s identity apart from their body.

It wanted to feed. It wanted to bond.

But Jiyon didn’t let it. Not yet.

He wrapped it in a blackout cloth, stuffed it in his duffel, and stepped back.

Park Hamin rubbed his eyes.

“Did you see it?” he mumbled.

“See what?” Jiyon asked casually.

“There was… something. Gold. And… a knife?”

Jiyon shrugged. “Probably a dream.”

And just like that, the boy forgot.

Because the System had taken his memories, and now it had no reason to keep him alive.

He’d never unlock the Auction again.

Jiyon left before the light in Hamin’s eyes finished dimming.

One more future rewritten.
One more death avoided.

But no one was saved.