The next items passed beneath the auctioneer’s voice, but few in the hall cared to listen. Interest clung instead to the figure in black at the edge of the lower stands. Every tilt of Xiao Lei’s bamboo hat drew glances; his quiet outweighed every shout. Messengers slipped out one by one to pierce his veil, and returned with nothing.

  Still, Xiao Lei bid twice more. His first strike fell on a Marrow-Cleansing Lotus. The petals, pale as frost, shimmered faintly under the light, and murmurs rippled across the seats. He knew what he wanted—something to temper any hidden backlash from the Dragon’s Breath Resin. Foundation Establishment might claim immunity, but he was not there yet. His coin bought him precaution, nothing more.

  Fate was not without irony. Soon after, another treasure appeared—Soul-Searing Grass, its stalks dark and sharp as coiled flame. Unlike the resin, this fit him perfectly. The moment Shi Chu spoke its name, Xiao Lei’s decision hardened.

  He pressed forward again, cutting cleanly through the swelling bids. Upper chambers stirred, voices smooth with practice, yet he met each without pause. Twice the hammer struck in his favour.

  Whispers curled like smoke. Wealth and resolve—these now wrapped around his name though no one dared speak it.

  The lower stands muttered among themselves, conjectures piling high. No nameless drifter could bleed coin in such fashion. No ordinary cultivator would meet the eyes of nobility with such calm. To many, the conclusion was inevitable: a young master of some hidden lineage, strength veiled beneath plain robes.

  Even the upper floor could not remain unmoved. In his chamber, Xun Chen tapped the armrest with a slow rhythm, his earlier disdain darkening into guarded respect. Beside him, attendants held their tongues, wary of the sharpness in their master’s gaze.

  Further across, Ming Sen reclined in shadow, lips curved faintly though his eyes betrayed surprise. He was not a man given to easy astonishment, yet every inquiry he had sent returned the same answer: no record, no name. The mystery only deepened.

  And then, in the central chamber, Princess Xiuyue leaned forward. Her curtain already stood parted, her displeasure plain for all to see. She did not bother to mask the frost in her gaze. A single snort slipped from her lips, cutting sharper than steel. Her silence lingered a beat longer, her sleeve snapping as she turned away.

  The auction rolled onward, yet beneath its polished rhythm a different current pulsed. The treasures gleamed, yet in every heart, brighter still was the enigma seated in shadow below.

  The auction had stretched into its final breaths. Lanterns guttered low; their flames thinned to threads as if the hall itself had tired of shouting voices and clinking coin. On the stage, Shi Chu lifted the next parchment. His brows knit faintly; for a moment he read twice, as though mistrusting what the ink declared. Then, with a careful cough, he motioned for the attendants.

  A small object was placed upon the velvet stand.

  At first glance, it was hardly worth notice—a dull, slate-coloured tile, no larger than a grown man’s palm. Its surface caught no gleam, its edges blunt, as if meant for a roof rather than a stage. Yet something about it unsettled: the velvet sagged as if the tile pressed harder than its size promised; light seemed to hesitate at its edges.

  Shi Chu cleared his throat and turned a deliberate smile upon the crowd.

  “This piece,” he announced, “was recovered from the ruins of Xihe Kingdom. Its metal has defied all attempts at identification. Our appraisers suspect it may serve as some form of key.” He let the pause hang, then added, “Starting price: three thousand spirit coins.”

  The words struck the room, but no bids answered. For a heartbeat, the crowd only blinked. Three thousand—yet for what? Murmurs rose, sharp with disbelief. One man called out, half jeering, “A key? To what door?”

  Shi Chu’s smile held, though the corners strained. He cursed the fool who had insisted this be listed, cursed the moment he let it onto the stage. Still, his voice smoothed like lacquer. “After much examination, our experts confirm the object’s great age. Its purpose remains uncertain, yes—but the craft of its forging is unlike any known method. Even the smallest quantity of such metal has value.”

  That claim only deepened the crowd’s scorn. Laughter swelled, derision rippling like broken glass through the hall.

  “What use is an age-old trinket?”

  “Too small even for a dagger’s hilt!”

  “Three thousand? Hah, melt it for scrap!”

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  Shi Chu’s gaze swept the rows. Everywhere he looked he met mockery—smirks, shaking heads, eyes glinting with ridicule. His hand twitched, ready to signal the attendants to carry the tile away, consign it to obscurity.

  And then—

  “Three thousand one hundred.”

  The words cut clean through the din.

  They came from the lower stands. From the black-robed figure seated with unbent posture, bamboo hat shadowing his face.

  Xiao Lei.

  The jeers faltered mid-breath. Laughter cracked and fell silent. A taut hush trembled through the rows, each body in the hall held as if caught mid-motion.

  Shi Chu’s hand froze, halfway through its gesture. For an instant he stared, breath caught. Then he found his voice again, steady though thinner than before.

  “Three thousand one hundred… spirit coins.”

  The words carried out, sharp and undeniable.

  Xun Chen’s voice curled across the chamber like smoke, mocking and sharp.

  “I thought you a young master of some noble clan. Yet you squander wealth like a peasant who stumbled into gold—throwing coin at trinkets you cannot even comprehend.”

  The remark drew faint chuckles, though few dared to echo them. Most eyes lingered instead on the figure beneath the bamboo hat. Confusion rippled through the hall.

  Until now, his bids had been precise—each aimed at rare treasures that advanced cultivation: Marrow-Cleansing Lotus, Soul-Searing Grass, Dragon Breath Resin. His judgment had been keen, his coin certain. But this? A fragment of stone, dismissed even by the auction house itself, nothing more than a broken tile.

  The hall’s air seemed to thin, caught between laughter and unease.

  Beneath the veil of his hat, Xiao Lei did not stir. He offered no reply, no glance. Stillness itself became his answer. The moment the fragment touched the stage, something within him had shifted. His eyes snapped open, a flicker of light crossing their dark depths.

  The shift came not from the hall but from within.

  His chest tightened. The Black Heart — usually dormant unless battle demanded it — stirred unaided. Not frantic; slow and deliberate. Heavy. Measured. Its thrum pressed against his ribs, a cadence out of time.

  And when his gaze fell upon the tile, the pulse deepened. Firmer. Unyielding.

  Unease ran cold through him. He extended his senses, threading Qi outward in a cautious sweep. Nothing. No aura, no formation, no trace of spiritual power. Only the relentless pulse of the Black Heart, as if it recognized what no eye or tool could.

  Why?

  He remembered the gift—bestowed by a figure whose name alone could rattle empires. The Sovereign of Will. A presence whispered of in fear and reverence alike. One relic tied to that age would be enough to drown sects in blood. Yet here it lay, ignored, scorned as rubble.

  His fingers curled once in thought. Doubt pressed close, but the heart’s rhythm allowed no room for it. Not frantic, not wild, but steady—as if guiding him step by step.

  Xiao Lei exhaled slowly, his choice settling into him like a key finding its lock.

  When the bidding opened, his voice cut through the quiet: calm, certain, unshakable.

  No other voice followed. A few scoffs lingered, some frowns creased in confusion, but coin purses stayed shut. To them, the shard was worthless.

  Xiao Lei closed his eyes. The hall thinned to shadow, its noise dissolving. All that remained was the rhythm—linking him to this fragment, to something that reached back beyond memory. What tie bound it to the Black Heart? To the Sovereign? Or perhaps to the god whispered of in scripture?

  He did not know.

  But he trusted the beat.

  The auction reached its end beneath the wan glow of thinning oil lamps. The final treasure—a high-level earth-grade technique—was claimed by Princess Xiuyue for thirty-two thousand spirit coins, her gesture as casual as the tolling of a bell. Murmurs rippled, then ebbed away.

  Xiao Lei did not linger. He made no further bids, nor did he attempt to sell the items he had gathered. Tempting as the coin might be, prudence weighed heavier. Stonebrook Village lay only a few days’ journey away; should whispers of its turmoil spread here, he dared not risk any thread tying him to it. Better to remain a shadow, his purchases unseen.

  He moved toward the exit, steps unhurried beneath the broad brim of his bamboo hat. Yet before he reached the doors, two figures slipped from the crowd, barring his way. Their robes bore no insignia, but their posture was too disciplined for common attendants.

  “Sir,” one intoned with a shallow bow, “our master would like to invite you for wine.”

  The words were polite, but Xiao Lei felt the steel beneath them.

  His gaze did not flicker. Inside, thoughts flashed like lightning. He had no desire to know who their master was, nor to sit at any table where questions might pierce his veil. Escape crossed his mind—he could vanish into the crowd with Void Step, dissolve like smoke between shifting bodies.

  But risk shadowed the thought. If the other party had Foundation experts hidden nearby, a failed escape would shatter the illusion they themselves had cultivated: that of a scion from some powerful sect. Courtesy would collapse into hostility.

  Options unfolded, narrowed, tangled. His fingers curled once beneath his sleeve, then stilled—

  —and in that pause, a voice slid into his mind, uncoiling like an old shadow. One he had not heard in a month.

  “Kid. Why is it I always find you in such pitiful straits?”

  Mocking, familiar.

  Xiao Lei’s breath caught. His awareness sank inward. Within that hidden starry space, the slumbering beast was awake once more.

  The small puppy, once almost-transparent and flickering like a fading wisp, now looked more solid. Black-and-white fur bristled with renewed texture, each strand vivid under the faint shimmer of its aura. It radiated a vitality absent before, the lingering reward from devouring the spirit of the Eight-Limbed Spider. Its presence pressed faintly against his consciousness, stronger, steadier.

  Not only Xiao Lei had grown from their visit to the barracks; his companion too had taken a step forward.

  Yet surprise was not his alone. The pup’s eyes—bright, sharp, always posturing as though ancient beyond measure—had locked upon something in Xiao Lei’s chest.

  The heart.

  A core of midnight glass pulsed with a rhythm skewed just wrong for flesh—too slow, too certain.

  For once, the pup’s arrogance slipped. Its tone sharpened with true curiosity.

  “What in the hells… is that?”

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  Destiny Reckoning. It’s set in the same universe, and you definitely don’t want to miss it, because the stories will eventually crossover.