As the curtain to the booth fell, sealing away the presence of the man who had just silenced an entire hall with four simple words, the tension barely had time to settle.
Because—
From the neighboring booth, a woman's voice drifted out, low and smooth, like velvet over steel. There was a depth to it, not girlish nor sweet, but mature—measured and languid, the kind of voice that could hush a room or command attention without ever needing to raise its pitch.
"You're being an asshole again," she said, every syllable pronounced with practiced calm. "Why are you always such a bully?"
It wasn't loud, but the acoustics carried. Clear enough for those in the rows below to hear—though just barely.
A murmur of curiosity stirred.
Some turned their heads toward the sound, others simply exchanged glances.
But most just held their breath.
Because whoever she was, she didn't sound afraid. Not of the man who had just bid four thousand like it was loose change. Not of the crowd. Not of anyone.
And that made her even more dangerous.
From behind the closed curtain, the man's voice responded without hesitation—quiet, but laced with disdain.
"Who cares," he said flatly. "They're just lowly ants, after all."
A beat of silence. Then the woman's sneer practically cut through the air.
"You think you're a king?" Her voice curled, almost amused, but no less biting. "Dumbass. You're just a rank 1 as well."
He chuckled softly.
Not mockingly. Not even in defense.
Calm. Certain.
"Hehe… I was born fifteen years ago," he said, tone cool and unhurried. "Do you really think they're comparable to me?"
He let that question hang for just a moment, then continued—matter-of-fact, without arrogance, but with the kind of pride that needed no embellishment.
"Look at them. Most of them are in their mid-twenties. Thirties. And they're still stuck at rank 1."
His voice dropped just slightly, colder now.
"What a fucking joke."
A hush fell again—but this time, it was laced with heat.
Those nearest to the elevated booths had clearly heard it. Every word. The insult didn't come as a shout, but as a low, unbothered murmur—and somehow, that made it worse.
"Look at them… what a fucking joke."
Murmurs broke out like cracks spreading through ice.
"The hell did he just say?" someone hissed, eyes twitching.
A broad-shouldered cultivator at the back clenched his fists, his spiritual aura flaring slightly before a friend grabbed his shoulder. "Don't," the friend muttered quickly. "You'll die."
Another pair, younger, sat stiff as boards, one of them practically vibrating with anger. "He's just a kid! Rank 1 like the rest of us—what gives him the right?"
"Shut up," his companion snapped, pulling him back down into his seat. "Did you see what room he came from? People like that… you don't bark at them unless you're ready to get crushed."
Across the hall, a woman in crisp gray robes scoffed under her breath. "What a spoiled brat," she muttered, but her fingers trembled around the jade cup in her hand.
Beside her, an elder with sunken eyes and a worn expression let out a tired sigh. "You've had two tribulations," he said quietly, not unkindly. "And you're still struggling with your inner foundation. He's fifteen. Accept it. That kind of talent… we don't catch up to it."
One older man gritted his teeth, but said nothing. His jaw flexed, eyes dark with fury—but no words came.
Near the corner, a gaunt man with a sword on his lap stood halfway, his hand twitching toward the hilt. "Rank 1 or not, talk like that deserves a broken jaw."
The woman beside him—her robes worn from years on the road—reached up and pressed him gently back down. She didn't even look at him, only said, "Not here. Not for that."
And he sat. Silent. Fuming.
Because everyone knew.
He wasn't wrong.
And that was what stung the most.
They were older. Slower. Less talented. Most of them had taken a decade to reach the first rank.
He'd said it with scorn, but he hadn't lied.
So what could they do?
Grit their teeth and endure.
As the next item prepared to roll out on stage, the auction floor was no longer just hot with excitement.
Now, it simmered with quiet humiliation.
But in one of the private rooms above, none of that tension reached.
Yanwei sat there, half-sprawled on a chair tilted back at an angle that dared gravity to interfere. One leg rested leisurely on the table's edge, beside a half-eaten plate of spirit beast meat, while a servant girl delicately fed him slices of chilled fruit with slender chopsticks. Her hands were steady. His eyes were not on her.
He'd heard everything.
The voice from the other booth—the arrogant tone, the self-satisfaction, the sneering dismissal of everyone else's cultivation.
Yanwei didn't even blink.
He chewed slowly, swallowed, and let out a soft breath through his nose—more of a sigh than a scoff.
Another one, he thought.
Another so-called genius drunk on his own early rise. He'd met dozens of them—boys who thought the world bent for them just because their cultivation speed outpaced others for a few years. They talked loud. Walked proud. Thought themselves dragons.
And then they shattered.
They never even reach the peak they brag about, Yanwei mused, accepting another bite from the girl beside him. All that arrogance for a climb that ends halfway up the mountain.
He didn't even bother to remember the voice. Whoever the boy was, he'd be forgotten the moment the next peak smashed into him.
Yanwei leaned his head back against the chair's rim, lids low, utterly at ease.
To him, that boy was nothing special.
…
Back near the elevated booths, in a shadowed alcove barely touched by the warm glow of lanterns, the woman who had spoken earlier stood quietly beside an elderly woman whose hair was streaked with white like frost on a winter morning. The murmur of the crowd was a distant hum here, but the tension lingered palpably around them. This was her moment — her scene — a brief respite from the cacophony, where the sharpness in her eyes softened into something heavier, more contemplative.
Her voice was low, mature, and threaded with a weariness only years of witnessing the same struggles could forge. She glanced toward the restless crowd, her gaze sharp but distant, as if seeing something beyond the surface.
"Why does he love being such an asshole?" she muttered, the words barely more than a breath, yet charged with a subtle bitterness. "What does he even gain from that?"
The elderly woman beside her regarded her quietly for a moment, her expression touched with the wisdom and patience born of a lifetime's experience. A small, knowing smile curved her lips — not mocking, but understanding.
"Because they want superiority," the elder replied softly, voice calm like the steady flow of a river. "Men sharpen their egos like weapons — not just for battle, but to protect themselves from the world. It's a natural instinct, deep in their blood — a hunger to be more, to be feared, to be seen."
The younger woman exhaled slowly, a quiet surrender in her breath. Her lips tightened in a resigned smile that held both sadness and acceptance — a smile that spoke of countless disappointments, of watching the same cycle repeat. She looked back at the crowd, a flicker of compassion hidden beneath her cynicism.
"They think it makes them strong," she whispered, "but sometimes, it just makes them lonely."