Chapter 12. The Person I Was Waiting For

The next day, carrying the Jar of Desire, I headed to Arabek Appraisal Center, the largest in the capital. Renowned for handling rare and valuable treasures from across the nation, Arabek also operated a professional academy to train appraisers systematically.

With its wealth of irreplaceable treasures, gemstones, and vast cash reserves, Arabek boasted impenetrable security. Guards—nearly two meters tall—stood rigidly at the massive entrance in immaculate uniforms, radiating an intimidating presence that could make even an innocent person feel nervous. Taking a deep breath, I stepped forward, knowing this step would lay the foundation for what I needed to do next.

The high-ceilinged lobby exuded a stately, vintage charm. Thick carpets softened the marble floors, and the cherry wood-paneled walls lent a warm ambiance. Though the space was quiet, the subtle hum of murmured conversations rose to the ceiling, pressing down like an invisible weight.

Both staff and customers spoke in hushed, polite tones, but the tension of transactions hung in the air—an unspoken nervousness that came with buying and selling high-value items.

“May I assist you?”

An impeccably dressed staff member approached, her suit as formal as a tailcoat. Her hair was styled so flawlessly, it seemed to forbid even a single strand from falling out of place.

“Oh, yes, thank you. I’m here for an appraisal.”

“Let me escort you to the reception desk.”

The receptionist at the desk was the spitting image of my guide. I couldn’t tell if they were twins or if their appearances had been magically standardized.

“Uh…”

As I hesitated, the guide helpfully took my name and registered for me. She explained that I’d be called in turn to one of nine rooms while waiting on the velvet sofa.

The sofa was stiffer than it looked. Though the velvet gave it a luxurious appearance, a discolored patch near its base betrayed its age.

The other visitors, diverse in age and appearance, cradled their items protectively, like swaddled infants, their legs bouncing with nervous energy. This restless scene was a signature feature of Arabek Appraisal Center.

A staff member with a clear, resonant voice called out unfamiliar names one by one, each customer disappearing into one of the nine rooms for varying lengths of time.

“Miss Myrda! Please come to the reception desk.”

At last, my name was called. I sprang up and approached the desk.

“Hello, ma’am. Let’s see… You registered under the ‘small items’ category, is that correct?”

I briefly wondered if the jar really qualified as a “small item” but nodded.

“Yes, it’s called the ‘Jar of Desire.’”

“May I see it?”

“Of course.”

Watching her carefully, I wondered if she might recognize its true nature. But she quickly examined the jar, flashed a perfunctory smile, and handed me a receipt with a stamped number.

“Thank you for waiting, ma’am. Please proceed to Room 8.”

Arabek operated like a well-oiled machine. The polished professionalism and formulaic courtesy felt far more reassuring than a falsely warm smile. With a sense of procedural detachment, I entered Room 8.

The appraiser who greeted me wore a tangerine-colored suit, distinct from the lobby staff. At Arabek, appraisers were treated like representatives of the brand itself, and each one carried the company’s reputation on their shoulders. This appraiser listened intently and seriously as I explained the item.

“Could you place it here, please?”

She laid out delicate magical tools on a side table and donned a mask that covered half her face before beginning the appraisal.

“…”

Her intense focus was palpable, making even swallowing feel intrusive. She muttered to herself occasionally and scribbled in a notebook, while I awkwardly stood a few steps away, debating whether to clasp my hands in front of me or let them hang at my sides.

“How long do I have to stay like this?” I wondered silently.

“The initial appraisal is complete.”

To my surprise, the appraiser finished quickly.

“Initial?”

“I’ll prepare a preliminary report for you. You’ll need to schedule a secondary appraisal at the reception desk.”

“I was hoping this could be finalized today…”

“That depends on the item. For this one… Hmm. I sense faint magical energy, but it’s subdued.”

“Subdued?”

“It could be interpreted as low magical energy, but I suspect someone intentionally suppressed it. This falls under advanced appraisal territory, so further verification is required.”

“Ah… I see.”

I felt a pang of disappointment. I had chosen to buy the Jar of Desire because I believed it was genuine, contrary to its public reputation. I thought its authenticity would make the appraisal straightforward, but I was mistaken.

My mind drifted to Nexiard’s dagger, which I’d pawned. I’d asked the pawnbroker not to sell it for a week, but it was a verbal agreement at best. If he sold it to someone else, I’d have no legal grounds to object.

The secondary appraisal required a three-day wait, and depending on the results, a third might follow.

“Of course, Arabek’s appraisers are the best. You could take my report to another appraisal center for the second round, but… they’d likely take even longer than us.”

The appraiser’s tone was professional, though it was unclear if her words came from a manual or a desire not to lose a customer. Either way, her persuasion had no effect on me.

Expediting the process was important, but my reason for choosing Arabek wasn’t just about speed.

“Miss Yona! Miss Yona!”

Feeling slightly deflated, I stepped outside alone. A nervous staff member, drenched in cold sweat, was chasing after a tall man in a billowing black robe as he strode across the hall.

The robed man had silver hair, tied low at his back, reaching down to his waist. His hair swayed like the tail of a well-fed, well-rested horse.

“I’ve told you, the approval documents are piling up! You can’t just breeze in and out like the wind—it’s a serious problem!”

The staff member’s desperate pleas didn’t faze him. The man passed me on his way to the exit, barely sparing me a glance. We weren’t close enough to brush shoulders, yet I felt as if our paths had crossed in some inexplicable way. Perhaps it was the feeling of destiny colliding.

Abruptly, he spun around.

“You there!”

I deliberately turned back a half-beat late, feigning confusion as I looked around. Since he’d only shouted “you,” others nearby also glanced his way, uncertain whom he was addressing.

“Damn it.”

The man, now visibly irritated, took long strides toward me. I’d been so struck by his striking appearance that I hadn’t noticed his attire, which was surprisingly casual and wholly unsuited to the formal atmosphere of an appraisal center.

Pointing directly at me, he raised his voice again.

“Yes, you. The one with the jar.”

“Yo… Yona! Please, sir, speak politely to our customers…”

The staff member, trailing behind him, had gone pale. The man, called Yona, was a coolly handsome figure with an icy aura that matched his piercing demeanor. He smirked slightly and added:

“You came here to get that thing appraised, didn’t you?”

Straightening my posture, I refused to appear weak in front of someone so blatantly rude, even on a first meeting.

“Yes. I just finished scheduling the secondary appraisal.”

“When?”

His tone wavered between clipped and drawn-out, as though even his words couldn’t decide on proper decorum. Regardless of his lack of manners, I had no intention of stooping to his level. Maintaining composure, I replied:

“Three days from now.”

“This is insane. A bunch of idiots with eyes and no brains. They might as well carry potted plants on their heads!”

His grumbling, though vague, seemed clearly directed at the appraisal center staff, judging by the staff member’s now-greenish complexion.

What intrigued me, however, was his intense gaze, which never wavered from the jar cradled in my arms, even as he spewed his tirade. My grip on the jar tightened.

“You don’t need to wait.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just… come with me.”

He spoke with the air of someone entirely at home, making everyone around him feel like mere visitors. I followed him into an elevator. Without pressing any buttons, the sensation of floating overtook me.

The heavy mechanical hum of the elevator was pierced by his voice.

“You’re the woman from the black market yesterday, aren’t you?”

His tone was accusatory, leaving little room for denial. I put on the most innocent expression I could muster.

“Who are you?”

“Don’t play dumb. It’s written all over your face—lying isn’t your strong suit.”

“…”

“I was the guy in the swan mask.”

It seemed his identity wasn’t much of a secret.

“I know.”

His voice and sharp, conflicted eyes were etched in my memory. Though his words at the auction had been prickly, they were now unmistakably familiar.

“Yona.”

He said, introducing himself.

At that moment, the elevator doors opened, revealing a space that defied categorization—part playground, part exhibition hall, part library. Though it seemed cluttered, there was an underlying order unique to its owner.

“I’m the director of Arabek Appraisal Center,” he said.

‘Of course you are,’ I thought to myself.

Because Yona, the director of Arabek, was the person I had been waiting for.