The air was heavy.
Not with fear.
But with something deeper—disillusionment.
It pressed down on the crowd like a silent mountain.
Many of them had spent decades cultivating, believing they understood the path. That talent was measured in five tiers. That work, persistence, and resources were enough.
But now?
Now it felt like their entire lives were a lie.
Especially the elders.
They sat frozen, expressionless, yet a chilling cold had seeped into their bones.
No one spoke.
But in everyone's mind, the same three words echoed—
"Such a thing exists?"
The old man didn't wait for the silence to settle. He had seen this before.
He raised a finger, pointing directly at the book sitting atop the pedestal.
"This technique," he said firmly, "is compatible only with fire-aligned second talents."
"You cannot use it if you don't have it. Not truly. You can try, yes. But it'll be like forcing two puzzle pieces together that don't match. The result? Waste. Pain. Or worse."
His eyes swept across the sea of stunned faces.
"Unless your second talent is mixed with fire—even partially—you'll find this technique incompatible. And even then, it's no guarantee. Most hybrid talents have unstable affinities. The fire within might be too weak, or drowned out entirely. If it's not dominant enough, the technique won't respond. And even if it does respond… your progress will be painfully slow."
He paused.
"Your resource cost? At least ten times higher. And even that's optimistic."
The room remained quiet, but the silence now felt suffocating.
"This isn't just a technique," he added, tone cooling. "It's a contract. Once you step into it—it marks you. Shapes you. Binds to your foundation."
"You can't just learn it and toss it away later."
"If you do… you'll have to restart your cultivation. From zero."
Several in the crowd gasped. Even the more composed figures flinched.
Restarting meant more than just lost progress—it meant giving up years, sometimes decades, of effort. For many, it meant death.
"I'm not saying it's impossible," the old man continued calmly. "Some have done it. Changed foundational techniques mid-path. But those were monsters in human skin. People whose comprehension, talent, and determination defied belief."
"And even they paid a heavy price."
He gave them all a hard look.
"And don't get any foolish ideas."
"Some of you might be thinking, 'If I stick to fire techniques, I can learn multiple at once. No conflict, right?'"
He scoffed.
"Affinity isn't the only issue."
"You want to walk multiple technique paths? Fine. But understand this—it's not just about learning a bunch of fire-type moves. If you want to get stronger, you have to evolve those techniques. And that means merging them."
He took a step forward.
"Say you've got two level-one techniques. To move up, you need to combine them and create a technique strong enough to be called level two. Then later, you'll need two level-two techniques to make one that reaches level three. And so on."
"Every step forward means fusion. Creation. You're not just stacking power—you're forging it into something new."
He let that settle, then added sharply:
"That's insanely difficult. And that's without any affinity conflict."
"Now… what if you don't have a second technique to merge with? What if you only have one?"
He paused.
"Rot and die?"
"No."
"That's where comprehension comes in."
He pointed to the pedestal.
"A true cultivator doesn't wait around for someone to hand them scrolls like cabbages in a market."
"If you're walking a single path, most of the time, you don't find a second technique—you create it. You comprehend it from what you already have."
"You take the rank-two technique you've mastered, and you push it. You break it open, find its essence, and from that, you create something new. That's how most of the cultivators who walked this path move forward."
He swept his gaze across the room.
"But again—that's not easy. Not everyone has the insight, the will, or the talent to pull it off. And those who try to walk multiple paths without being able to merge them?"
A thin smile touched his lips.
"They stay stuck. Forever."
…
The silence in the auction hall deepened—no longer the kind that stretched across a crowd, but the kind that crushed into each soul individually.
Some couldn't even meet their own thoughts.
The old man's words weren't just instruction anymore. They were revelation. Judgment. A reflection of everything they didn't know—and everything they thought they did.
Several among the crowd—especially the sharper ones—had, at first, clung to a hopeful interpretation.
"If it's fire-only… then surely, I can just learn multiple fire techniques, right? No conflict there. Just stack them. That's how I'll get around it."
It was never a plan.
Just a fleeting thought. A fantasy.
A little self-satisfaction in the face of something absolute.
As if they'd found a flaw in the universe's logic and could pat themselves on the back for being so clever.
But then the old man had said it. Word for word.
"And don't get any foolish ideas…"
He had crushed that very thought underfoot—before they even finished feeling smug.
The illusion of intelligence vanished, leaving nothing but shame and humiliation.
Their pride had tripped over its own shallowness. They weren't clever. Just naive. Trying to look smart in front of something far beyond them.
Some swallowed hard. Others lowered their heads slightly, pretending they weren't among those called out. But their racing hearts told a different story.
And then, the weight came crashing down for everyone else.
Even those who hadn't tried to outthink the old man—those who listened earnestly—felt their world beginning to split.
How could something so foundational… be something they'd never even heard of?
Second talents. Binding contracts. Technique paths that could ruin your foundation with a single wrong choice.
The more they thought, the colder they became.
Was everything I've done… wrong?
One elder in the back clenched his fists behind his robe. He had cultivated for over sixty years. Not weak, not strong—but steady. Consistent. He had believed himself wise, careful.
And yet… the possibility that his second talent had been quietly incompatible all along—that every breakthrough he made was just dragging himself across the mud—made his stomach churn.
His lips trembled.
What if I had the second talent he spoke of… and never knew? What if I spent my life settling for scraps when I could've soared?
What once seemed a righteous path now looked like a cruel joke.
Others stared blankly at the book on the pedestal. They weren't thinking of loopholes or clever angles. They were simply overwhelmed.
"Such a technique exists?"
"Is this… really the level of cultivation I aspire to?"
"How do I even stand a chance?"
A few dreamers began to drift into hope. Their thoughts weren't logical, just desperate and beautiful.
Maybe… maybe I have that second talent.
Maybe I'm the one person in ten thousand who can walk this path.
And then the harshest truth landed.
To walk this path—to even step onto it—you couldn't rely on what you were given.
You had to comprehend your own technique.
Not receive one. Not buy one. Not steal one. Create it.
And it had to evolve.
You'd have to take two Level 1 techniques and merge them into one Rank 2. Then two Rank 2s into a Rank 3. And so on.
Each merge wasn't just harder—it was exponentially more brutal. It wasn't writing with ink—it was carving words into steel with your bare hands.
And most of the people here? They couldn't even comprehend the Rank 1 techniques they were given by their sect.
One cultivator, barely into his third decade of training, found himself laughing silently.
A sad, cracked laugh.
"I can't even understand the manual my sect handed me three years ago… and I'm supposed to create a better one from it? Then evolve it? Then stack more?"
The absurdity was soul-breaking.
It was one thing to struggle.
It was another to realize you were never even on the right map.
Some felt their knees weaken—not from despair, but disbelief.
The kind of disbelief that forces you to reevaluate your entire life.
The old man hadn't mocked them.
He had just spoken truths so large, they dwarfed everything they knew.
And some—especially those who had thought they'd found a clever hole in his words—felt their faces burn.
They weren't geniuses.
Just children.
Trying to sound brave in a storm they didn't understand.