The tension didn't fade—it twisted.
Not loud, not violent. Just quieter now. Sharper. Like the silence between two blades drawn but not yet crossed.
Yanwei's smile held, but there was a chill beneath it now. He hated losing—loathed it, in fact. Not because his pride was fragile, but because losing meant someone had read him. Understood him. Saw through him.
And Mistress Lan?
She hadn't just guessed. She'd prodded him—baited him—and he bit. That was what stung. She didn't need brute force or veiled threats; just a single phrase, "Checkmate," was enough to flip the weight of the room against him.
That wasn't just intelligence. It was intrusion.
Because this wasn't about the auction anymore, not really. Mistress Lan was trying to dig. Subtly, yes. Smiling, always. But Yanwei could feel the intent behind her gaze—like she was peeling him open layer by layer, waiting to see what truths spilled out.
And that, to him, was a far greater offense than any insult. He could endure being mocked, even ignored. But being analyzed? Being understood?
That meant being vulnerable.
No, the tension didn't die. It evolved—became colder, more personal. A clash of minds dressed in tea and smiles.
Yanwei's fingers stilled on the table, the playful rhythm gone. His smile remained—but it was thinner now. Brittle. A smile sharpened into something that could cut, if needed.
"How much is the payment?" he asked, voice calm but laced with something harder—like iron wrapped in velvet. The corners of his lips tugged upward, but the expression didn't reach his eyes. Not anymore.
Mistress Lan didn't flinch. Her smile remained—graceful, composed, utterly unaffected by the edge in Yanwei's tone. If anything, she looked amused. Like she was watching a child throw stones at a pond, hoping to strike something deeper.
"Fifty middle-grade spiritual stones," she said smoothly, lifting her teacup once more. "Expensive, I know. But the price includes the background information you want…"
She paused, then turned her head just slightly, chin tilting toward the silken bed draped in shadow.
"…and the fact that you deflowered her."
Her words were soft—gentle, almost—but they struck like a blade laid calmly against the throat.
Yanwei's smile didn't crack, but the silence that followed throbbed with weight.
Yanwei let out a low sigh, the kind that carried both annoyance and resignation. He reached into his sleeve, pulled out a storage bag, and tossed it onto the table without another word. The soft thud as it landed was the only sound he offered before he rose to his feet.
He didn't glance back. Didn't say anything more. He simply walked—calmly, steadily—toward the door, the room's warmth peeling off him with every step.
Rose and Mistress Lan said nothing. They just watched him. Eyes steady. Silence lingering.
His hand found the door.
He opened it, the old wood creaking softly on its hinges. But just as he was about to step out, Yanwei halted. One foot in the hall, one still within. Without turning fully, he looked back over his shoulder.
"You won't even check the payment?" he asked, voice dry, almost amused. "What if I'm scamming you?"
A beat passed. Then: "Also… can I ask your name?"
Mistress Lan's brow lifted, just slightly. A flicker of surprise. Nothing more—but it was there.
"It's Mistress Lan," she replied evenly. "As for the payment… I trust you."
She took a slow sip from her teacup before setting it down, her smile still in place.
"Besides," she added, "you wouldn't get very far if you try to scam me."
Yanwei didn't respond.
He turned back to the hallway, steps quiet on the old floorboards.
But just as he passed beyond the threshold, her voice followed—light, lilting, like a ribbon on the wind.
"Your disguise is quite good, by the way."
He didn't pause. Didn't flinch.
But the faintest curve tugged at his lips as he walked into the dark.
A few hours later, Yanwei stepped into the Verdant Flame Tavern, a worn-down but steady place tucked between a talisman shop and a half-rotted apothecary. Lantern light flickered outside, casting faint shadows across the tiled walkway.
Inside, the place was dim and quiet. A few scattered cultivators nursed drinks, heads low, voices lower.
A waiter in plain robes noticed him and approached quickly.
"Need a room?"
Yanwei didn't answer. Just tossed a pouch onto the man's open hand.
The waiter checked the weight with a quick squeeze, nodded, and jerked his head toward the back.
"This way."
The hall was narrow, the walls lined with faded paintings and flickering talisman lanterns. The door creaked as it opened—old hinges, rough wood—but the room itself was clean enough. A hard bed, a low table, a water basin that still steamed faintly.
The door shut behind him.
Finally, no one to smile at.
Yanwei sat down cross-legged on the floor, the wooden boards cool beneath him. He closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing, the way he'd done hundreds of times before. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
A few breaths in, he muttered under his breath.
"I need to calm myself first."
It took a few minutes.
His thoughts finally slowed—less sharp, less noisy. But the frustration still lingered like embers in his chest.
"I really hate getting carried by my emotions," he thought, eyes still shut. "But that woman is annoying as hell. She's really trying hard to dig into me."
He opened his eyes slightly, staring at the dim talisman lantern casting a dull glow on the wall.
"She definitely has some background… but what is she even doing here?"
His brow furrowed.
"And the Skyheart Enclave too. What's their agenda? They wouldn't travel this far unless something big was involved. Something worth the distance. Worth the risk."
His jaw clenched.
"Mistress Lan, huh…"
He leaned back slightly, arms resting on his knees.
"She's smart as hell."
His tongue ran across his lips, slow, deliberate.
"I wonder what she'd taste like."
The thought was idle—but it lingered, sharper than it should've. Not lust. Curiosity. The kind that itched under his skin. The kind that came from wanting to devour someone in more ways than one—mind, body, secrets, all of it.
But he shook it off.
He let out a low, self-mocking laugh, rubbing a hand down his face.
"Why do I even have the urge to fuck? Goddamn, what kind of hormone is this?"
His voice was quiet, almost amused—but there was tension beneath it. As if even his own body had become another thing to discipline. Another beast to chain down.
He laughed again, this time sharper—directed inward, a low growl of frustration.
"Geez, I'm stooping so low… not driven enough by a goal."
He shook his head. "I really need some goal, even if it's just for a short time."
His mind flicked back to the auction. The one thing he needed most.
"That things… I have to get it. No matter what. To reach Rank 2."
But even as he tried to steel himself, the image of Mistress Lan crept back, unwelcome and persistent.
Rent-free, he thought bitterly.
He clenched his jaw, voice tightening.
"Miss Lan… oh, Miss Lan… should I kill you just to have some peace?"
The question wasn't really a threat. More a confession of how deep she'd burrowed into his mind—how dangerous that was for someone like him.