Xu Lanyue let the hush stretch just a moment longer before her voice rang out, light and melodic.
"The bidding is going to start!" she announced, a faint gleam in her eyes. "The starting price is five hundred small-stage spiritual stones!"
A beat passed.
Then someone in the crowd blinked, brow furrowing. "Only five hundred? Isn't that… kind of cheap? I mean, considering the rank and the effect of the item? Are they trying to bankrupt themselves?"
A snort came from beside him—his friend, arms crossed, shaking his head.
"Are you stupid?" he muttered under his breath. "It's bait. Classic technique. They start low on purpose so people fight over it—watch, it'll skyrocket in no time."
The first guy scratched his head, unconvinced… but then glanced back toward the stage.
His eyes landed squarely on Xu Lanyue.
There was a pause.
"…Who cares," he whispered with the blank honesty of a man clearly beyond logic. He raised one hand without shame. "She's pretty."
And then, louder:
"Six hundred!!" the young man shouted again, his hand raised like a kid confessing to stealing bread.
He looked barely twenty, sharp-jawed but wide-eyed, clearly new to auctions—and life. His friends groaned around him.
Almost immediately, a deep voice followed.
"Seven hundred."
A burly middle-aged cultivator from the side bench raised his fan lazily, as if he had all the time in the world. His temples were streaked with gray, his jaw lined with stubble, and the gold-threaded patch on his sleeve marked him as a disciple from a mid-tier sect.
Then—
"Seven fifty!" came another shout, this time from a gaunt, hook-nosed man in his fifties with sunken eyes and a permanent sneer etched into his lips. His voice rasped, like it had clawed its way out of his throat. "Can't let you juniors hoard everything!"
"Eight hundred!" A younger girl—not more than eighteen—called out with bright eyes and rosy cheeks. She stood near the back, flanked by two elders, both of whom seemed quietly amused at her enthusiasm.
The bids began to snowball.
"Eight fifty!"
"Nine hundred!"
"Nine fifty!"
"A thousand!!"
They came from every corner—shouted, muttered, declared with pride or grit. Wrinkled fingers, jeweled hands, calloused palms—hands of the old, the sharp, the proud, and the desperate—shot up like flames.
Faces flushed. Eyes gleamed. Even the composed began to shift in their seats.
Xu Lanyue stood above it all, smiling as if she were watching a dance unfold exactly on rhythm.
"One thousand one hundred!"
"Thirteen hundred!"
"Fifteen hundred!"
"Sixteen hundred!"
A thin, scholarly-looking man with ink-stained sleeves raised the stakes with a casual flick of his fan. "Seventeen fifty," he said, voice bored—but his eyes never left the shield.
"Two thousand," came a cold, cutting voice from the far-left balcony. The speaker was a woman this time—pale-skinned, sharp-browed, eyes like obsidian marbles. Her presence silenced a few murmurs.
But only briefly.
"Two thousand one hundred!!" came the excited shout from the same wide-eyed kid earlier, still grinning like a fool.
His friend grabbed his sleeve. "Bro. BRO. Stop. Do you even have that much?!"
"I'll figure it out later," he whispered, still gazing at Xu Lanyue like she was a goddess descending from heaven.
More laughter rippled. But no one truly slowed.
"Two five hundred!"
"Two eight!"
"Three thousand!"
By now, the air was thick—no longer just hot with tension, but blazing. Qi surged in some places just from excitement. Faint pressure leaked from stronger cultivators unconsciously.
And then—
"Three thousand five hundred."
A calm, steady voice. Male. Deep.
The crowd hushed.
All heads turned.
A tall man stood from one of the elevated private booths—maybe in his thirties. His long hair was tied in a warrior's knot, his face lined by an old scar down one cheek, and his robes were embroidered not in gold or silver, but black thread. No sect emblem.
His gaze was level. He spoke as if the number meant nothing to him.
Even Xu Lanyue's brows rose slightly in interest.
No one spoke for a moment.
Because three thousand five hundred small-stage spiritual stones wasn't just a statement—it was a challenge.
And not everyone had the courage—or wallet—to answer it.
Xu Lanyue's hand hovered in the air, eyes half-lidded, savoring the tension like the last sip of wine.
"Three thousand five hundred… once."
No one moved.
"Three thousand five hundred… twice—"
SLAM.
A heavy wooden door on one of the upper-level private booths swung open. Not violently—deliberately. The sound cut through the velvet silence like a blade.
From within, a man stepped into view, bathed in warm lamplight from behind. His robe flowed as he moved, dark blue layered with silver trim, embroidered with faint patterns that shimmered only when he breathed. A jade emblem—a lotus encircled in clouds—pinned near his collar. His hair was loosely tied, his posture relaxed.
But his voice?
It was sharp. Unhurried. Unbothered.
"Four thousand."
The hall froze.
Like glass cracking under frost, conversation shattered in every corner.
From the middle row, someone hissed in disbelief, "Did he say four thousand?!"
Another voice, younger, almost laughing in shock, whispered,
"It seems like one of the final bosses already came out…"
A friend leaned close, eyes still fixed on the balcony above.
"Indeed. The people in those rooms—" he gestured faintly upward,
"—they don't just come with spiritual stones. They come with weight. Four thousand is nothing to someone like that."
"I knew it," someone muttered from the side. "The real players weren't even bidding yet."
The man above didn't even glance at the crowd. He simply leaned an elbow on the railing, looking almost bored.
He wasn't posturing.
He didn't need to.
And that terrified them more.
Even Xu Lanyue's smile sharpened at the corners. Not quite surprised, but entertained.
"Four thousand spiritual stones," she echoed, her tone rising like silk caught on a breeze.
"Do I hear another offer?"
The hall stayed still.
No one dared raise a hand.
The braver cultivators clenched their pouches, weighing risks—then quickly gave up. It wasn't just the money. It was who they'd be competing with.
A cultivator in the back leaned toward his friend and whispered, "He didn't even flinch when he said it. No hesitation at all."
"Dude probably has ten thousand more in his sleeve."
Xu Lanyue raised her hand, voice ringing out once more.
"Four thousand… once."
"Four thousand… twice."
A beat.
A breath.
"Sold."
Her palm dropped gently, final.
And just like that, the first real wave of spiritual tension rippled through the auction floor.
Above them all, the man stepped back into his booth without fanfare, the curtain falling shut behind him.
But no one had any illusions.
That wasn't the end of him.
Just the beginning.