"Ten thousand middle-stage spiritual stones!"
The meathead's voice rang out again—louder, sharper. Still trying to sound amused, but the edge of irritation was impossible to miss.
Then—
"Eleven thousand," came the voice of the woman with that rich, velvet smoothness.
She didn't raise her tone. She didn't need to. The moment her voice returned, it draped over the room like silk—effortless and amused, as if this was all a delightful little game.
"…Twelve," followed another voice, colder than wind over a frozen grave.
The same chilling tone from earlier. Measured. Distant. It didn't bid—it declared.
The air grew tight.
And then, like the fool he was, the meathead jumped again.
"Fourteen!" he barked—louder now, trying to drown the others with sound if not with weight.
There it was—the crack in composure. The desperation to stay relevant. To not be overshadowed by elegance or terror.
But his timing was awful.
Because just a breath later—
"Sixteen," came the response from Room Three.
Yanwei's voice.
No louder than before. No sharper. Just that same, maddening calm.
As if none of this impressed him.
As if they were still playing a game and he had already seen the ending.
Gasps fluttered across the main hall like ripples in a pond. People glanced at each other, unsure whether to admire the boldness… or fear it.
Because this wasn't just posturing anymore.
This was personal.
And Yanwei?
He spoke again—dry and surgical.
"You should've stopped at 'sharp mouth.'"
A pause. Enough for the weight to sink in.
"Because now you're just swinging your axe like a man with a dented skull and too much pride to notice."
Laughter almost broke through in the lower levels. Suppressed. Nervous. One man actually turned away, covering his mouth.
The meathead didn't answer.
Couldn't.
Because when Room Three spoke, it wasn't just a bid.
It was a message.
And everyone in that chamber heard it loud and clear—
Don't mistake silence for weakness.
A beat passed.
Then the meathead's voice crackled back to life behind his veil—lower this time, almost like he was leaning toward someone nearby.
"Hey… Yuze."
The chilling voice responded immediately, calm and frigid.
"What is it?"
"You should back down," the meathead said bluntly.
A tense silence.
Then—
"…Huh?"
Yuze's voice sharpened, no longer just cold—it was edged with disbelief and rising fury.
"You dare to give me an order? Who do you think you are?"
"Calm down," the meathead said smoothly, unfazed by the shift. "I'm going to give you that thing you've been begging me for—if you give me the money to win this item."
That made the silence heavy again.
"…You would?" Yuze asked, voice slow and suspicious. "Stop giving me that bullshit. You've literally never handed over your price for that thing—not even after I asked for it for, what, a year? Two?"
The meathead's tone didn't change.
"Well, I have no choice. After all…" He paused. "I want to beat this arrogant shit."
The hall was quiet, but the weight of the conversation behind the spiritual screens had shifted—now carrying tension of a different kind. An alliance? A deal? This wasn't about the item anymore. It was about power. About pride.
Yuze didn't answer right away.
He was thinking.
Because the truth was, items like this didn't show up every day. It wasn't something you could just buy because you were rich. You needed luck just to stumble upon it in the first place. Auctions like these didn't always offer what you were looking for, no matter how deep your pockets were.
And now that it was here… he had a decision to make.
He weighed his options.
Even with enough money, it wasn't guaranteed he'd win the bidding war. The competition was intense, and Room Three—whoever that arrogant bastard was—was clearly capable of throwing around large sums without blinking.
Yuze could risk it all, try to win the item himself… and possibly end up with nothing.
Or—
He could make peace with the meathead, take the guaranteed reward he'd been chasing for years, and walk away with something solid instead of a gamble.
After a long pause, he let out a slow, heavy sigh.
"…Alright."
The moment those words left his mouth, the grin on the meathead's face stretched high—wild and satisfied.
Ear to ear.
He let out a bark of laughter, full of triumph.
"I'm surely winning this!"
Then he raised his voice again—loud enough for the hall to hear, sharp enough to draw blood.
"Let's see if your pocket's bigger than mine—and Yuze's."
Still grinning like a man who had already pocketed the heavens, the meathead turned again—this time, his voice directed toward another private room. Confidence still lingered in every word, along with the buzz of satisfaction.
"How about you, Velurya? You can ask me for anything—so long as it's not extremely outrageous."
The response came sharp and swift, wrapped in velvet and laced with contempt.
"Unlike Yuze, our sect stands toe-to-toe with yours," Velurya said coolly. "Do you really think I'd need anything from you?"
A brief pause—just long enough for her voice to dip lower, amused.
"And even if I did… I could just ask my mother for it."
There was laughter behind the veil. Light. Mocking. Beautifully cruel.
But the meathead didn't flinch. Her ridicule slid off him like rain.
"Whatever suits you," he replied, still grinning.
Then he turned again.
"How about you, Moyao?" he asked, tone still light, casual—like offering tea at a gathering rather than drawing more allies into a spiritual war.
Moyao's voice came out calm, as always—unmoved by tension, untouched by provocation.
"It's not about what I like," he said coolly. "More like… what can you offer?"
The meathead let out an exaggerated groan.
"Your nonchalance is still annoying as ever!"
But his grin didn't fade.
"I'll tell this maid what I can offer," he added with a chuckle. "And I'm pretty sure you won't be able to reject this one. Hehe…"
He turned to the maid standing silently by his side and whispered something into her ear.
She nodded, and without a word, stepped out of the room.
All eyes followed her.
Like vultures circling a wounded beast.
Like scholars peering into a divine relic.
Everyone wanted to know—what was being offered? What kind of item could make someone like Moyao—whose background might rival or even surpass the most dominant sect in the region—agree without hesitation?
The air crackled with curiosity. Even the private rooms had gone silent, ears straining behind their spiritual veils.
The maid reached another door.
Knocked.
Slipped inside.
A single minute passed. No more.
Then, from behind that spiritual veil, Moyao's unbothered voice echoed once again.
"I accept your proposal."
And just like that, the entire atmosphere shifted.
From suspicion—to something colder.