The moment the old man stepped back, the crowd erupted.
Not with cheers.
Not with applause.
But with noise.
Tense whispers. Awed mutters. Barely-contained breaths.
"Is that the legendary way to break through?"
A girl near the back gripped her sleeves tightly, knuckles pale. Someone beside her answered without looking away from the stage.
"Well, in the history books, there were better ways," he said with a tight voice. "Secret realms, divine beasts, inheritance altars… but if you're talking about methods that aren't extinct or buried under ten thousand feet of earth, then yeah. This is the rarest one that's still possible."
"Natural elemental resonance…" another muttered, almost reverent. "I thought that method was just theory. Who the hell expected it to show up in this kind of auction?"
A lean youth with storm-grey sleeves let out a sharp breath. "I was already shocked when I saw those stones getting sold. But to think they were natural ones… not artificial, not infused—just real, raw force molded by the world?"
Someone added quickly, "That kind of foundation… it's what separates an average Rank 2 from a monster."
"But there's no Tideglass," a voice pointed out, almost defensively. "You can't get a perfect foundation without all four elements. It's incomplete!"
"So what?" snapped a short-haired girl in deep blue robes. "Even if the water one's missing, these stones are still worth it—for crafting, refining, talismans—hell, even for training affinity control. You'd be a fool to ignore them."
Someone frowned. "But… you can't use them for resonance breakthrough without Tideglass, right?"
She clicked her tongue. "Of course not. You think I'm an idiot? The resonance method needs all four—wind, fire, earth, and water—to harmonize your foundation. Missing one throws the whole process out of balance."
"Then why's everyone losing their minds over it?"
"Because it's still a rare chance to own real elemental stones. And if someone already has Tideglass—or knows where to find one—this set is gold. The rest of us? We can only hope to survive the bidding war."
"You think the people in those upper rooms are gonna let us touch this?" a boy whispered, eyes drifting to the elegant booths above.
"You an idiot?" came the fast reply. "Of course they're aiming for it. Natural elemental stones are too rare. If they don't grab it, their enemies will."
"So we… don't have a chance?"
That question hung in the air like a stone in the throat.
"…No," said one after a long beat. "Not unless you're crazy enough to throw every spiritual stone you've got."
"Or unless someone rich enough down here's desperate enough to break through."
Someone near the front let out a bitter laugh. "Desperation makes people dangerous."
The auctioneer raised a hand, the atmosphere sharpening like drawn steel.
She didn't need to glance at the crowd to know—they were already burning. Desire curled like smoke from every table, flickering behind quiet eyes, hidden beneath composed robes. She gave them no time to cool.
"Starting bid—one thousand five hundred spiritual stones."
The number cut through the air like a blade.
A hush fell. Just for a heartbeat.
Then—
"One thousand seven hundred!"
"One thousand nine hundred!"
"Two thousand!"
The bids came fast and loud, sharp as sparks flying off flint. The crowd jolted as if slapped, suddenly awake, suddenly aware that the game had already started—and no one wanted to be left behind.
At the rear of the hall, a man in weather-beaten robes gritted his teeth. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for his pouch, thumb brushing over its seams. "That's nearly all I've saved. Months of hunting, selling, scraping just to keep up… But this?" He closed his eyes for a split second. "This might be the only time I can buy a way forward." And then, louder: "Two thousand three hundred!"
Near the front, a girl with pale knuckles leaned toward her friend, voice hushed and shaking. "Do you have anything to spare? Please—I just need three hundred more. I swear I'll pay you back after the next trial!"
Her friend gave a tight, regretful smile. "I can't. I'm bidding too."
"Two thousand five hundred!"
"Two thousand eight hundred!"
"Three thousand!"
Each number climbed like hammer blows. The pressure in the room grew thicker, tighter, pressing down on shoulders and chests like an invisible stormfront. Nobody moved dramatically. Nobody dared to. But eyes darted, fingers twitched, and spiritual pouches shifted beneath robes.
A youth in gray leaned forward, mouth dry. "Three thousand. That's almost everything. But if it gives me even a chance to leap ahead… I'll take it. I'd rather die trying than rot at the bottom."
"Three thousand five hundred!"
"Four thousand!"
The bids were now less frequent—but heavier. Measured not in confidence, but in sheer willingness to bleed.
Another cultivator stood with a grim smile, his sleeves patched and dusty. "Four thousand five hundred!" he barked, then muttered to himself, "May the heavens forgive my greed… or reward it."
"Five thousand."
"Six thousand."
The word landed like a dropped boulder.
Murmurs rippled across the crowd. Several heads turned toward the sound, but no one could pinpoint the bidder. It didn't matter. The line had been crossed now.
In a darkened corner, a boy barely past seventeen clutched his waist pouch like it was his heart. He looked down, did the count, then looked up again. His lips parted, but he didn't speak yet. His hands were sweating. Do it, a voice inside whispered. Say it. What else are you saving for?
"Six thousand five hundred!"
"Seven thousand!"
The numbers rang like war drums now—beating back doubt, drowning restraint. There were no cheers, only sharpened breathing and a dozen silent decisions to risk everything.
If I don't try, I'll stay weak forever. And if I do… maybe, just maybe—
"Seven thousand five hundred."
"Eight thousand."
Each bid was a thunderclap. The auctioneer barely needed to move. Her presence had faded into the background. The crowd had turned on itself now, trapped in a rising tide of greed and need.
"Eight thousand five hundred."
"Nine thousand."
Silence.
A deep, aching silence.
The kind that makes your chest feel too small for your ribs.
Nine thousand.
That was more than most inner disciples earned in a year.
Then—
"Ten thousand."
It wasn't shouted. It wasn't proud.
It was quiet. Solid. As if the speaker had cut open his soul and laid it on the table.
No one laughed.
No one gasped.
They didn't need to.
Everyone understood.
This wasn't bidding anymore.
It was war.
And someone had just drawn blood first.
But the silence that followed didn't last.
A voice rang out from above—unhurried, cutting, dripping with mockery.
"You lots are still trash," it said. "Getting hurt over a little amount of money? What a joke."
The words slammed into the crowd like a slap across the face. Not shouted, but delivered with such biting clarity that it carried across the room without effort. It didn't come from the pit, nor the common seats. It came from above—one of the private rooms tucked in the upper alcoves, veiled behind spiritual screens and layers of protective arrays. No one could see the speaker, but no one needed to. The arrogance in that voice was enough to draw every eye upward.
Then, without hesitation—without even the courtesy of a pause:
"Twenty thousand."
The number dropped like a boulder into a lake of glass, shattering whatever composure the hall had left.
Shock tore through the room. A breathless, stunned stillness spread like wildfire. Bidders who had just been roaring at the top of their lungs now sat frozen, their hands trembling just inches above their pouches. The number didn't climb—it jumped. From ten to twenty thousand, like every sacrifice made before it had been meaningless.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. It was as if the whole crowd had collectively forgotten how to breathe.
And then, slowly—painfully—the tension began to coil again. Not the fiery eagerness from earlier, but something colder. Darker. A suffocating pressure that squeezed around hearts and clenched around pride.
At the back, one man let his head hang, laughter barely held between clenched teeth. "So that's it, huh?" he muttered. "We were never even in the same game."
Beside him, a girl gripped her robes with white-knuckled fists. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. But the flicker in her eyes—rage, envy, helplessness—burned hotter than any fire talisman.
Even those who hadn't bid looked shaken. Because now, it wasn't just a question of money. It was a reminder.
A reminder that in this world, desire alone wasn't enough.
You needed power.
And power came with price tags some of them would never afford.
The auctioneer didn't speak right away. She let the silence fester, let the weight of the bid settle like ash. Then she smiled—just faintly. Not at the speaker, but at the storm he'd unleashed.
The real bidding war had finally begun.
From one of the nearby private rooms, the sharp voice of the woman who had spoken earlier cut through the charged silence like a blade.
"You're the one who's trash," she sneered, her tone cold and unwavering. "You think I would just let you get this?"
Without hesitation, she raised the stakes, her words slicing through the air: "Thirty thousand!"
The man's reply came almost instantly, a dark chuckle threading through his words. "Seems like you really want a battle, huh? Forty thousand!"
The sudden escalation sent ripples through the crowd.
Rank 1 cultivators exchanged glances, their faces tight with a mixture of shock and reluctant respect.
They had expected the price to climb high—had even predicted it might reach these dizzying numbers—but no one had realized just how easily those inside these upper rooms could drop tens of thousands of spiritual stones like loose coins.
The bidding had transformed into a quiet war of wealth and will, far beyond the reach of the average hopefuls below.
The air hung heavy with the bitter taste of defeat for anyone not prepared to wager everything.
From another room came a deep, bellowing voice, rough and gruff like a charging bull.
"Both of you are too loud! Just bid already, will ya?"
A moment later, a chilling voice slithered from yet another shadowed corner—low, smooth, and unnervingly calm.
"Indeed. Like that meathead Chen Yun said, stop fighting like children. I know you both are, but this is an auction. Win with money, not debate."
He let the words hang in the air a heartbeat longer before coldly dropping his bid: "Sixty thousand."
The room's atmosphere thickened, growing colder, heavier with tension. Yet in one of the private chambers, Yanwei's expression remained unreadable. He didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. If anything, he looked utterly indifferent—as if the soaring stakes meant nothing to him.
With a bored yawn, Yanwei's eyes half-lidded, he offered his bid flatly, voice low and steady.
"Seven thousand middle-stage spiritual stones."
For a heartbeat, the entire room seemed to freeze. His casual, almost dismissive offer stood in stark contrast to the fierce uproar of voices and soaring numbers. It was a silent reminder that sometimes, true power didn't need to shout.