Yanwei laughed.
Not loud. Not warm.
A sharp, deliberate taunt—like he was playing with something breakable.
"Hey, Velurya."
Her brow twitched. The sudden shift caught her off guard. "…What is it?"
He tilted his head, voice light, almost curious—but the glint in his eyes said otherwise.
"What's the affinity of that technique getting auctioned later?" he asked, licking his lips as if savoring the chaos. "Who knows… maybe my second talent and Tyr's are the same, y'know?"
Velurya blinked.
"I think it has something to do with fire or lava? I'm not a hundred percent sure."
The words left her mouth before she could stop them.
And worse—
She said them out loud.
Yanwei's eyes flicked toward her.
He didn't smile. He didn't smirk.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly, blinking once.
Then, with a faint breath, he said, "Lava?"
His tone rose just enough to suggest surprise—but it rang hollow. Too precise. Too staged.
"Isn't that… a hybrid element?"
He let the words hang, like they carried weight only he could feel.
Then his mouth curved, slow and deliberate.
"Well," he added lightly, "every option's got something to do with his temper, huh?"
But it wasn't mockery.
It wasn't clarity, either.
It was something else.
A faint performance. A whisper of misdirection.
And even Velurya couldn't tell what it was meant to be.
He even knew about hybrid elements…
The thought hit her like a bucket of cold water.
Just who are you actually?
She narrowed her eyes—just slightly—but inside, her thoughts raced.
Back when he called out to her—
When he asked that question, so casually—
Her first instinct hadn't been curiosity. Or irritation.
It had been sharper. Hotter.
Who do you think you are!?
But those words never came out.
Instead, she'd answered him.
Cleanly. Almost automatically.
And only now—only now—did she realize how fast it had happened.
Before she even understood why.
To the crowd, it was nothing.
No jab. No boast. No insult.
Just a small reaction. A touch of confusion. A simple word.
"Lava?"
That was all Yanwei said. His tone rising, soft, almost polite.
To most, it was forgettable—just a passing breath in the chaos.
But to Tyr, it wasn't.
Because Yanwei wasn't confused.
He was faking it.
That tone—that sliver of shock—was too clean, too practiced. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just a deliberate note, slipped in like a knife hidden in silk.
And that was the part that gnawed at Tyr.
Because if Yanwei had truly been indifferent, that would've been fine.
If he'd insulted the talent outright, Tyr would've fought back.
But this? This was worse.
To fake surprise meant Yanwei had already judged it.
Already dismissed it.
It wasn't good enough to earn real respect.
Wasn't strong enough to earn contempt.
It was nothing to him. So dull, so unworthy, that he had to act like it meant something.
Pretending to care—pretending to be surprised—wasn't just disrespect.
It was erasure.
And it made Tyr's blood boil.
He couldn't win with money.
He couldn't win with voice.
Even with Yuze on his side, it wasn't guaranteed.
And now?
Even his second talent had been laughed at—without a laugh.
That fake reaction—light, casual, effortless—
It was louder than any insult.
"Should I risk it…?" Tyr's jaw tightened as the thought slipped through, bitter and uncertain. "Maybe he's just joking… but by the looks of it, I don't think he's that type."
He didn't know the man's name. Didn't know his face. But everything about him—his words, his tone, the way he twisted a conversation without lifting a finger—felt deliberate. Precise. Lethal in a way Tyr wasn't built to handle.
And now, piece by piece, he could feel it happening.
He was losing.
Not in a battle. Not in blood.
But in something worse.
A mind game.
And the cruelest part? He never wanted to play in the first place.
Tyr fought with fists, with presence, with strength. He crushed what needed crushing. That was how things were in his world. But here—this damned auction house, this Moonlit Pavilion—he was shackled. Chained not by rules, but by the unshakable weight of consequence.
Some of the Rank 1s around him, these clueless little ants with wide eyes and shallow thoughts, probably assumed he could flip the table, tear the walls down, do as he pleased. They didn't know his name, but they felt his background in their bones—the way animals sense a predator. To them, he was a figure who could do whatever he wanted.
But they were wrong.
He wasn't some idiot high on his own power.
The Moonlit Pavilion—this place—wasn't something to be trifled with. Its silence was deeper than most wars. Its rules weren't suggestions. No matter how powerful your home was, here, you were nothing if you overstepped.
And the bastard across from him—this unnamed thorn—
He had all the advantage.
The place, the stakes, the risks—none of it fazed him. He toyed with the atmosphere like it was his own. Every sentence, every pause, felt like a knife slowly turning.
Everything's a joke to him.
And I already lost.
Tyr's knuckles trembled.
Then, without a word, he slammed his palm into the table.
No roar. No frenzy. No outburst of fury.
Just the sharp crack of wood splintering under quiet, humiliated strength.
He didn't look up.
He didn't speak.
And more than anything, he didn't dare embarrass himself any further.
He had no face left to lose.
All he cared about now was the last item up for auction—and who the hell that man really was.
He didn't know the name. Didn't know the face. Didn't know the territory.
But that calm, deliberate tone—the way he faked shock like it was a joke—gnawed at Tyr's mind.
He'd lost every mind game Yanwei threw, and that stung worse than any blow.
But winning that final prize? That was his only chance.
No matter the cost, no matter the risk, no matter the stakes—he'd get it.
Because that's the only way he could start to answer the question burning inside him:
Who is this man?
In the other room, Yanwei chuckled softly.
"Hey, Velurya," he called out, voice light and teasing. "Looks like little Tyr finally gave up. How about you? Why not show me a face? After all, I'm pretty sure that unlike Tyr, you don't desire any of the items here, do you?"
Velurya blinked, caught completely off guard. How did he know? Was Yanwei some kind of mind reader—or worse, a stalker? The thought sent a shiver down her spine. She struggled to steady her voice, unsure whether to deny or admit it. The confidence she'd held moments ago suddenly felt fragile, like glass about to shatter.