For a moment, silence reigned.
Not the awestruck hush of reverence.
But something colder. Sharper.
Confused murmurs stirred behind the spiritual veils of the private rooms—those who had been trading tens of thousands of spiritual stones with the ease of breathing were now shifting in their seats, tense and alert.
"…Who was that?"
The voice came softly from one of the rooms, cautious but edged with suspicion. It wasn't meant for the crowd, but everyone with a keen ear caught it.
Another followed, lower, disbelieving.
"I've never heard that voice before."
Then another, closer to anger than surprise.
"It came from Room Three, didn't it?"
A beat.
No one denied it.
Room Three, which had remained silent this entire time, suddenly delivered a bid that—while not the highest—was the most unnerving.
Seven thousand middle-stage spiritual stones.
A converted seventy thousand.
Not shouted. Not dramatic. Just… delivered.
And that was the problem.
Because the voice hadn't trembled. It hadn't wavered. It carried none of the tension, desperation, or arrogance that had flooded the hall just moments earlier.
It was indifferent. Detached. Unfazed.
The silence teetered—on the edge of suspicion, pride, and something far more volatile.
And then, once more, his voice.
Calm. Dry. Laced with mockery, as if he were merely indulging a bunch of children throwing tantrums behind golden walls.
"I didn't know I had to state my identity just to make a bid."
A pause—just long enough for the weight of his tone to settle.
"If that's the case, then what exactly am I paying for in this private room? A name tag?"
It wasn't a roar. It wasn't boastful.
But it cut.
The words slid through the still air like a thin blade—too smooth, too cold, and far too correct.
The ones behind the private room veils—those who had questioned him—fell silent.
Speechless.
Because, whether they liked it or not… he was right.
There was nothing they could say to refute it. The rules were clear. Private rooms were meant for discretion—paid for by those who could afford not to be questioned.
And yet, he had flipped their suspicion right back at them with a single sarcastic remark.
Down below—in the main hall where cultivators who couldn't even afford a private room sat elbow-to-elbow, their resources scarce and status lower still—the silence fractured into a quiet uproar.
Not loud. Not chaotic.
But intense. Whispered voices layered over each other like rustling leaves in a windstorm, barely restrained.
"INSANE!" one hissed, eyes wide.
"Did you hear that? He just made a sarcastic jab at three of them—three! And not just random nobodies… those were people from private rooms!"
"We can't even afford to offend a single one of those elites," another whispered with disbelief. "But him? He acted like they were insects!"
Someone closer to the side leaned in, whispering even lower, "Who the hell is he? Room Three didn't speak a word until now. Could he be from a rival sect?"
Speculation churned quietly.
"If he has the background to afford that room and make that bid, then he's definitely educated—and not stupid. No one from the major sects would act this reckless unless there's a life-and-death grudge."
Someone else leaned in, voice lowered, "Then maybe he's a rogue cultivator. That would explain why we've never heard of him—and honestly, any Rank 1 rogue who managed to save up enough to pay for that kind of room and drop seventy thousand like it's nothing… they'd have to be smart. Careful. Cunning."
The speaker shook their head with certainty.
"But that sarcasm? That was arrogance, not cunning. That's not how rogue cultivators act. You don't survive as a rogue by picking fights with people above your head. Especially not like that."
There was a pause.
Then, quietly, another theory emerged:
"…What if he just inherited the money?"
Brows furrowed.
"Think about it. If he's not from a powerful sect, and he's not street-smart enough to be a rogue, then maybe he just stumbled into a fortune. Gold handed to him without the wisdom to use it. That tone—that entitlement—it fits."
A grim murmur of agreement followed.
"Your guess might be the dumbest sounding one here," someone muttered, "but it makes the most sense."
And again, heads slowly nodded.
From behind the veils, that calm, almost languid voice echoed again—cutting through the heavy air like a blade through silk.
"When is the bidding supposed to continue?" Yanwei asked, voice low and unhurried. "If my count is right, I'd already be the winner, considering no one's made a bid."
There was no arrogance. No force. Just that same steady indifference—like he was discussing the weather, not challenging three powerhouses with a single remark.
Up at the platform, the auctioneer blinked as if waking from a trance. For a moment, even she had been swept into the silence, too caught up in the heat to remember her role.
She straightened quickly, face stiffening with composure as she offered a short, apologetic bow in the direction of Room Three.
"I—I'm sorry, sir," she said, regaining her rhythm. "The bidding will now continue!"
She cleared her throat, and her voice rang out across the chamber with renewed clarity.
"Seven thousand middle-stage spiritual stones… going once—"
From behind the spiritual screen of Room Three, a voice finally answered—calm, dry, and laced with sarcasm.
"You got called a meathead and didn't even refute it…"
A faint pause, as if Yanwei was giving the man a moment to reflect on that humiliation.
"…but now it seems like you've got some brain cells to spare, huh?"
It wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
That line hit harder than any yell—mocking and measured, like a blade casually drawn across skin.
Yanwei's voice cut through the tense air once more.
"Nine thousand middle-stage spiritual stones!"
The man Yanwei had called a meathead chuckled.
"Hehe, your mouth's sharp, huh? I wonder if it's sharper than my axe after I use your body as a whetstone to sharpen it—makes cutting through meat a lot easier."