Tyr wasn't upset.
Not even a little.
Eight hundred and fifty million?
He knew how rare the Emberweave Sutra was. Techniques of that caliber didn't show up in public auctions unless they were shackled to a hundred layers of conditions—or bait.
So even if he was being ripped off, even if the Moonlit Pavilion had raised the price just because they knew he'd buy it…
He didn't give a shit.
He wasn't thinking about spiritual stones.
He wasn't thinking about value.
He was only thinking of one person.
The rest of the hall faded into background noise. The auctioneer's voice, the murmurs, the shifting attention—they no longer existed in his world.
Because the moment the old man had mentioned the test…
The moment he looked toward the elite rooms…
Tyr already knew who would bite.
That bastard.
The one people whispered about behind closed doors. The one whose name always trailed after his, like a stain that couldn't be washed off.
He wasn't better. Not stronger. Not smarter. Not even luckier.
But people talked.
They always fucking talked.
And Tyr—Tyr who was born from bloodlines people bowed to, who cultivated faster than anyone in his generation, who earned his strength through discipline and talent—was not going to share his place at the top.
He didn't want a fair fight.
He wanted erasure.
Humiliation.
Absolute dominance.
So if the Emberweave Sutra gave him even the smallest edge…
Then what did it matter?
Eight hundred and fifty million?
That was nothing.
Because his pride?
His name?
His legacy?
That was worth more than every sect's treasury combined.
He would destroy that man.
Not because he had to.
But because he deserved to.
Because someone like him—Tyr—was never meant to be compared.
…
In another sealed room, Velurya watched the scroll float in the air.
She didn't look impressed.
Didn't look surprised.
She was just… the same.
Silent. Calm. Unmoving.
The kind of presence that didn't seek attention—but couldn't be ignored either.
After a moment, she turned slightly, her gaze drifting toward the old woman seated beside her.
"Grandma," she said quietly, "this is where our plan starts, right?"
The old woman didn't respond immediately.
Her face was expressionless. Her posture straight. The silence around her was deliberate.
Then, slowly, she nodded.
No smile. No words.
Just that.
Velurya looked forward again, her expression unchanged.
She didn't need to say anything more.
Because for her—
This was simply the beginning.
…
The room fell quiet again.
No one raised their hand.
No one dared.
And then—
Tap.
A single sound echoed from Tyr's sealed room.
A bid.
"Eight hundred fifty million… and one thousand low-grade spiritual stones," the auction master announced, his voice steady, though a hint of disbelief slipped through.
That was it.
No theatrics. No tension.
Just one final gesture.
Tyr didn't care to round it off. Didn't want to make a statement. Didn't even bother to show interest.
He simply ended it.
And with that—
The Emberweave Sutra was his.
…
To the ordinary spectator, the auction had ended beautifully.
Some left with treasures. Some left with nothing.
But even those who failed to win a single item wore faint smiles, content just to have witnessed it all. They called it unforgettable. A night worth remembering.
What they didn't realize—
Was that it wasn't over.
Not really.
Behind the polished stage and polite clapping, the night had twisted.
Foreign elites had arrived—silently, then violently.
The words second talent had been spoken.
A clash of elites had been witnessed.
A secret technique had surfaced.
And a test that could change a person's entire future was now in play.
Setbacks upon setbacks.
All within the span of a single night.
It wasn't simple.
Not on the surface.
Not beneath it.
Not even close.
And as for what was about to happen next?
No one knew.
Not the Pavilion.
Not the sects.
Not even the ones standing closest to the fire.
Because the real storm—
Had just begun.
…
The Moonlit Pavilion had finally quieted.
The crowd had dispersed.
Young cultivators, rogue wanderers, small-time hopefuls—gone into the night, some excited, others exhausted, all carrying fragments of something far bigger than they realized.
Xu Yanlue stood beneath a hanging lantern near the side corridor. The hall, once overflowing with tension, now echoed with silence.
She let out a long breath.
It was finally over.
The pressure. The burden. The expectation placed on her shoulders by the Pavilion's higher-ups.
Their first step… complete.
But just as that weight began to lift—
Footsteps approached.
She turned.
The old man—the appraiser from earlier, the one who had explained the second talent—walked toward her.
There was no hesitation in his step.
No pause to check if now was the right time.
He came with intent.
And as he stopped in front of her, he looked directly into her eyes.
Not with urgency. Not with confusion.
But with a look that was hard to pin down.
His face was calm—too calm. No smile. No tension. No clear emotion.
But his eyes…
There was something in them.
A gleam that hinted at obsession. Or perhaps deep, pressing interest.
It wasn't the usual shine of a curious scholar.
It was sharper. Hungrier.
Like he'd seen something he couldn't stop turning over in his mind.
Like the image of Room Number Three had branded itself into him.
And yet, for all that intensity, there was no madness. No awe.
Just a tightly controlled expression that hovered somewhere between fascination, unease, and something that couldn't be explained in simple terms.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"Miss," he asked quietly, "do you… perhaps know the man from Room Number Three?"
Xu Yanlue blinked.
A confused look flickered across her face.
She wasn't faking it.
"I don't," she said honestly. "Why?"
The old man didn't hesitate.
"Well, that guy is quite interesting," he said, voice calm but eyes steady. "I asked because I wanted to know if he's from any other sect—like Tyr, or Velurya. But now that you've said you don't know him…"
He paused, something unreadable passing across his face.
"That means he's not. And now I'm even more interested."
Xu Yanlue's expression tightened slightly.
"You still didn't answer my question," she said. "What are you planning?"
The old man didn't lie.
"I want to take him as a disciple."
He said it plainly.
"There's something about him. His mind—" he tapped his temple lightly, "—it's sharp. Even I couldn't fully read him."
He exhaled, eyes narrowing slightly.
"But more than that… he understands the second talent."
His voice lowered.
"That concept isn't even known in this region. Not hidden. Not lost. Just… absent."
His gaze drifted toward the corridor the man had exited through.
"But when he spoke—there was no confusion. No hesitation. It wasn't foreign to him at all."
He looked back at her.
"He knew. Not vaguely. Not by chance. He knew exactly what it was."
Then he shrugged.
"He has backbone. He's intelligent. He holds knowledge that doesn't exist here. That alone makes him valuable."
"As for brute strength? Who cares. I can find a way to work around that."