The Pavilion's entrance shimmered beneath layers of silk banners and softly glowing lanterns, its elegance understated but unmistakably exclusive. Guards stood silently at either side—stoic cultivators with concealed weapons and matching gazes that dared anyone uninvited to approach.
Yanwei stopped at the base of the steps, gaze lifting to meet the woman who had just stepped forward to receive him.
She was tall and composed, with hair pinned in an intricate coil and robes the shade of midnight, the collar lined with silver thread that glinted like frost under lamplight. Her eyes were calm, but sharp—trained to judge worth in a single glance.
"Are you here to participate in the auction?" she asked, her voice even and clear.
"I am," Yanwei replied, tone smooth.
"There's an entrance fee," she said, lifting one hand. "Ten small spiritual stones."
Without hesitation, Yanwei reached into his sleeve and retrieved them. He counted them out with casual precision and passed them to her palm, the stones clinking softly between their hands.
The woman inclined her head slightly. "You may enter."
Yanwei didn't move yet. Instead, he smiled faintly, that same expression which always made people wonder whether he was mocking them or simply amused.
"I'd like to sell a few items as well," he said. "Just minor things."
She regarded him a moment longer, then gestured toward a side corridor draped in red. "Go to the back of the stage. There's a handler who'll assess your wares. You'll need to sign a release form. Once that's done, your items will be listed."
"Appreciated," Yanwei replied with a courteous nod.
Then he stepped forward.
As soon as he passed the threshold, the air changed again—denser now, layered with incense and quiet tension. The interior of the Pavilion was opulent without being gaudy. Dark wooden pillars rose like ancient trees beneath a curved ceiling painted with images of cloud-dragons and phoenixes. Dozens of cultivators had already taken their seats—tiered in elegant rows facing a central platform draped in velvet.
Soft music played in the background—plucked strings and hollow drums, just enough to stir the blood.
Yanwei's eyes swept across the room, instinctively mapping exits, assessing attendees. Some sat with concealed faces, others with proud sigils of their sects displayed. More than a few bore the bearing of those who weren't used to losing.
He let out a slow breath through his nose.
So this is the kind of crowd it drew.
But he didn't dawdle. He slipped through the side corridor the woman had pointed out, passing under a beaded curtain that led into a quieter space. Several staff bustled here—auction handlers and appraisers, scribes hunched over ledgers, and guards at the ready.
A stocky man looked up from his table as Yanwei approached.
"Here to consign an item?" he asked.
"Several," Yanwei replied.
"Name?"
Yanwei's smile returned, slight and unbothered. "Let's just say… a passing traveler."
The man snorted, but didn't push. "Fine. Show me what you've got."
Yanwei set the pouch down on the table with a light thud.
The man opened it, and immediately, a muted clatter of metal, scrolls, and bundled herbs spilled forth. There was no gleam of heaven-tier treasures or rare elemental cores—only the modest chaos of quantity: chipped daggers, cracked talismans, unrefined pills, and stalks of spiritual plants halfway to wilting. Some weapons still bore faint bloodstains. Most looked scavenged rather than crafted.
The appraiser's brow twitched.
He picked up a curved blade, turned it over in his hand, then dropped it with a faint clang. A talisman followed, inspected only briefly before being tossed aside.
One by one, the items were weighed—not just by hand, but by eye, by instinct. The man had likely done this for years, and his judgment was swift and merciless.
Then, after a moment of silence, he looked up and met Yanwei's gaze.
"You've killed a lot of people," he said flatly.
Yanwei said nothing.
The man gestured to the pile. "But this stuff?" He snorted. "Rubbish. Scavenged scraps. A few broken talismans, low-grade herbs, weapons that wouldn't last a full exchange."
Still, he leaned back in his chair and gave a reluctant nod.
"But… there's a lot of it. And that counts for something."
He stood, waved down a younger assistant, and shoved the whole mess toward her. "Bring this to storage. Code it under temporary consignment. No priority tagging."
As she hurried off, the man turned back and counted from a drawer beside his table, stacking coins with audible clicks before sliding them forward.
"Twenty middle-grade spiritual stones."
Yanwei didn't move to take them yet. He watched, silent, neutral.
The man gave a short scoff, misreading the pause. "Don't think that's low. In fact, it's high—considering your rank."
He leaned in slightly, as if offering unsolicited wisdom. "My brothers and sisters wouldn't even bother picking through this trash. They're used to better. So be lucky."
Yanwei's lips twitched faintly—somewhere between acknowledgment and amusement. He wasn't offended. The man wasn't wrong.
It was trash.
But what made him pause wasn't the insult—it was the tone. That subtle, offhand superiority.
Because the man… was also Rank 1.
Yanwei tilted his head slightly. Odd, he thought. So casual with that arrogance…
He took the stones without another word and slipped them into his pouch. Polite. Unbothered.
Yanwei stepped out into the hall once more, the dull weight of spiritual stones now in his pouch, and his expression calm.
Not far from the archway, a neatly dressed youth stood stationed near a pillar, hands clasped behind his back. He wore a narrow sash embroidered with the Moonlit Pavilion's emblem—a stylized crescent over ink-dark silk. Not a waiter, but clearly someone meant to guide guests. An usher.
Yanwei approached with a measured step.
"Where can I sit?" he asked.
The usher bowed lightly. "Anywhere you wish within the main hall, sir, except for the private compartments above."
He nodded toward a curved staircase leading to the second level, where several enclosed viewing rooms were tucked behind translucent screens. Even from here, faint ripples of array-light shimmered around them—subtle but unmistakable to any trained eye.
"Those are private viewing rooms, each sealed with concealment and sound-isolation formations. No spiritual sense can pierce them. No spying, no disturbances."
Yanwei's gaze lingered there for a second. "Expensive, I assume."
The usher gave a wry smile. "Very. A few hundred middle-grade stones, just to reserve one for the night. Most who use them are disciples from powerful factions—Rank 4 sects or wealthy merchant families."
A brief pause, then the usher added more quietly, with professional tact.
"Even if someone unaffiliated managed to pay the fee, the Pavilion generally discourages it. If all the rooms are occupied, and a young master arrives—someone backed by name and lineage—and finds themselves forced to sit with common cultivators… it becomes a matter of face."
He straightened slightly, more serious now.
"That kind of offense might not fall on the Pavilion—but it would fall on the one who took a room above their station. The assumption being… you overstepped."
Yanwei tilted his head, faint amusement flashing in his eyes.
"So even your seat can become a declaration."
The usher gave a short nod. "Exactly, sir. Reputation matters—especially when it's all some people have."
Yanwei chuckled, voice soft. "Good advice."
He took a step forward, then paused.
"How much is it specifically?" he asked, gaze returning to the usher.
The youth's expression stiffened ever so slightly. A twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"Sir," he said slowly, "perhaps you didn't understand what I just said?"
Yanwei's face didn't shift. No irritation. No smugness. Just that calm, steady stare.
Then he asked again—this time slower, each word deliberate.
"How. Much. Is. It."
The usher stared at him for a moment, caught between protocol and wariness. A question flickered behind his eyes.
Either this man was a fool, or someone very dangerous.
No badge, no entourage, no visible symbol of status. Yet that expression—it wasn't ignorance. It was confidence.
The usher exhaled quietly, adjusting his sleeves with a small, resigned motion.
"Whatever. I already warned you," he muttered under his breath.
Then, louder: "Two hundred middle-grade spiritual stones. Non-refundable. Paid upfront. That includes the array seal and privacy warding until the end of tonight's auction."