The old man's voice rose once more, cutting through the suffocating silence like a sword.
"Some of you are still thinking— 'What if I have one too?'"
He didn't smile. Didn't mock. Just acknowledged it plainly.
"I don't blame you. After all, that possibility… it's life-changing."
A few cultivators shifted uneasily in their seats, as if their thoughts had been read word-for-word.
"But even if you do have one, you'll still need three things."
He raised a single finger.
"First—the ability to verify it. To find out whether you truly possess a second talent, and what kind."
A second finger joined the first.
"Second—the technique. The kind I've just described. One that matches your second talent. These are rarer than elemental stones. Scarcer than bloodline inheritance manuals."
Then a third finger.
"And finally—comprehension. The kind of talent that goes beyond remembering lines in a scroll. The kind that can see the essence of a technique, break it apart, and create something new."
He lowered his hand slowly, letting those words hang like a noose over the room.
"And now," he said, "let's talk about the first."
His voice turned quieter, more deliberate.
"The Moonlit Pavilion will be hosting an event. A test. Open to all. One that can determine whether you have a second talent—and more importantly, what it is."
There was a visible stir in the crowd.
Hope flickered. Small. Fragile. Dangerous.
"But—"
The word fell like a guillotine.
"There's a catch."
The old man's eyes narrowed.
"To take the test, you must accept the Moonlit Pavilion's mark. You will become their disciple—for the rest of your life. No exceptions. No renegotiations."
Gasps. Murmurs. The flicker of hope started twisting—becoming a dilemma.
A lifetime contract?
For a chance?
Some looked tempted. Others—offended. Chained for life to a sect, just for an opportunity they weren't even sure would bear fruit?
"And if that doesn't sit well with you…" the old man continued slowly.
He didn't finish his sentence.
Instead, he turned his head—and looked toward the upper tiers of the auction hall. Toward the sealed rooms reserved for the elites.
His gaze landed directly on three rooms.
"Tyr's room."
"Velurya's."
"And Yuze's."
He didn't say a word.
But everyone understood the unspoken truth.
If you don't want to be bound by the Moonlit Pavilion's contract—if you don't want to risk losing your freedom the moment your second talent is revealed—
Then your only other choice is to seek out those three.
Their backgrounds, their clans, and their resources grant them access to methods of confirmation that aren't public.
But that access is not free.
It's a favor. A debt. A price you'll have to pay.
Whether they'll help you find out… that's a question only they can answer.
…
Everyone fell into an absolute silence.
Not the kind born from shock.
But the kind that comes when the world opens a door—
And the price to walk through it is everything.
Each cultivator sank into their own mind.
Some had already made their decision.
They would attend the Pavilion's event.
They accepted the risk. If they had a second talent, then so be it—they would give up their freedom. Because to them, slavery under strength was better than dying weak and free.
Others?
Others looked up toward the elite rooms. Quietly. Hesitantly.
Maybe there's another way.
Maybe the contract from them wouldn't be as absolute as the Pavilion's. Maybe it would be a deal—negotiable. Maybe they'd only ask for service, not complete surrender.
But even that path was steep.
How do you convince someone like Tyr to help you?
How do you even get his attention?
Would you kneel? Grovel? Offer everything just to be noticed?
And even if you did… would the price be lighter?
No one knew.
For all they knew, Tyr could ask for something worse. Not your freedom—but your loyalty. Your body. Your bloodline. A vow that couldn't be undone even by death.
That uncertainty was a storm.
And then there were those…
The ones who stared into nothing.
Frozen.
They wanted to change their fate. They burned to know.
But they didn't want to pay. Not their freedom. Not their pride. Not anything.
They stood at a cliff with no bridge—just fog.
And behind them was a life of mediocrity. Ahead of them? A fall that might never end.
Some closed their eyes.
Some clenched their fists.
Some simply stood there, drowning in indecision.
Because for the first time, it wasn't about talent, power, or resources.
It was about choice.
And the truth was cruel:
No path forward was free.
Only different chains. Different masters.
Or the courage to become your own.
In fact, everyone's thoughts were valid.
Who wanted to be mediocre?
No one came to this hall dreaming of a stagnant life. Not one of them cultivated just to crawl behind others forever. They wanted to rise. To reach immortality. To make their name echo across generations.
But the road forward?
It was brutal. Not just difficult—dangerous.
One wrong step and they could cripple themselves permanently. Lose everything they'd built—decades of cultivation, shattered in one misstep.
And even if they succeeded… what was waiting?
A cage.
Whether it was the Pavilion's eternal contract or some hidden, soul-binding favor owed to the likes of Tyr or Velurya, one thing was certain:
Freedom would be the price.
No one liked that. No one should.
But when immortality was on the line—what price was too high?
It wasn't a foolish question. It was the only question.
And then—
Xu Yanlue's voice shattered the tension like glass.
"Emberweave Sutra. Starting price—eight hundred and fifty million low-grade spiritual stones."
The words dropped like a meteor.
Shock swept through the crowd
"That expensive?"
That was the shared thought, echoing silently from row to row.
Their scattered contemplation was torn away, replaced with a collective awe.
They understood.
They knew.
There was only one person in the entire hall who would even consider buying it.
No bidding war. No back-and-forth. No theatrics.
And that was exactly why the starting price was set so high.
There was no reason to start low—not when the Pavilion already knew who the buyer would be. If they had begun at ten million, fifty, even a hundred—it would've made no difference. There wouldn't be a second bidder. The price would only climb once, and the Pavilion would lose out.
So they started at the ceiling.
And still, the number stunned everyone.
Eight hundred and fifty million.
Even among elites, that was enough to hollow out a mid-tier sect.
The sheer weight of the amount hit harder than the old man's lecture.
And for many—especially those who had already steeled their hearts and made their decisions…
It shook them again.
They began to hesitate.
If just the technique costs this much…
How steep is the path really?
Everything the old man said—the pain, the risk, the cost—was no longer theory.
It was in front of them now.
Written in stone. Counted in spiritual currency.
And it was merciless.
This wasn't a dream.
This was reality.
A path paved in millions. In sacrifice.
And not everyone was ready to walk it.