Velurya didn't reply.
Not because she couldn't.
But because she simply didn't.
It wasn't worth it anymore.
Whether he was probing, provoking, or just playing around—she no longer cared to find out.
Let him talk. Let him mock.
Whatever game he was playing, she was done pretending it mattered.
The silence stretched.
A moment of hesitation—then the auctioneer finally found his voice.
"Going once…"
The words echoed, formal, detached.
"Going twice…"
Somewhere, a few murmurs stirred—small, uncertain—but no one dared to counter.
Then came the shout.
Sharp. Clear. Final.
"Room Number Three is the winner!"
The declaration rang across the pavilion like a drumbeat.
No protest followed. No outcry.
Just the weight of a nameless force sealing its claim.
And in the quiet that followed, somewhere behind the veil of Room Three—
Yanwei leaned back in his chair.
He didn't celebrate.
He didn't gloat.
He simply closed his eyes, like nothing that had just happened was worth remembering.
A soft knock.
Then the door creaked open as a maid stepped inside, carrying a small, ornate box nestled in spiritual seals.
She bowed respectfully, hands steady despite the invisible pressure lingering in the air.
"Congratulations, esteemed guest," she said. "This is your auction prize."
Yanwei didn't even look up.
He flicked a single spiritual stone pouch from his sleeve. It landed on the table with a gentle clink—more than enough.
No counting. No hesitation.
Just unquestioning confidence.
He took the box, cracked the seal with a casual flick of his fingers, and placed it into his storage ring without even glancing at it.
No awe. No excitement.
Like it was a chore.
Like it was already his the moment he named the price.
The maid blinked—just once—but said nothing. She bowed again and left quietly, as if afraid to disturb something delicate.
Behind him, silence returned.
But it wasn't empty.
It was heavy.
Commanding.
The kind of silence that followed a clean, effortless kill.
Velurya sat still for a moment, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Then, just loud enough for only the room to hear, she muttered through clenched teeth:
"Who does he think he is? Some kind of genius?"
Her eyes narrowed, voice low, simmering—not loud, but sharp with frustration.
"He only won because of what I said… and because of this damn place."
Her gaze drifted to the walls of the Moonlit Pavilion—the way the atmosphere pressed in, formal and suffocating. The rules. The etiquette. The eyes that always seemed to be watching.
"This isn't the kind of place you can just act freely," she hissed under her breath, face twisted in quiet annoyance. "Anyone with the right face and the right words could pull what he did…"
Velurya's gaze flicked sideways, locking onto the old woman sitting beside her.
A thin, bitter smile curled on her lips.
"It's just a silver platter being delivered to him," she said quietly, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Don't you agree, Grandma?"
The old woman's eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing.
Velurya's words hung in the air—an accusation wrapped in bitterness, aimed as much at the situation as at the silent witness beside her.
The old woman met Velurya's gaze, a gentle smile playing on her lips—calm, knowing, and just a little sharp.
"Do you want me to be truthful," she said softly, "or do you want to hear what you want to hear?"
Velurya's eyes flickered, her jaw tightening as she absorbed the old woman's words.
After a pause, she whispered, "The truth…"
Her voice was soft, but there was steel beneath it—an unspoken admission that she was ready to face whatever truth lay ahead, no matter how uncomfortable.
The old woman's smile softened, but there was a weight in her tone as she spoke.
"Velurya, you're too young to understand."
She leaned closer, eyes steady.
"Tell me, do you know what's the most important thing you need when you fight using your body?"
Velurya blinked, considering.
"Strength… physical traits?" she offered hesitantly.
The old woman said nothing at first, letting the silence fill the space.
Then, after a pause, she added, "And what about when you fight using your mind? What's the most important then?"
Velurya furrowed her brow, thinking.
"Raw intelligence?" she guessed.
The old woman chuckled softly, reaching out to pat Velurya's head gently.
"Wrong."
She pointed to her own chest, right over her heart.
"The most important thing when you fight with your mind is…"
She let her finger rest there, letting the word hang between them.
"Guts."
Velurya's brow furrowed deeper.
"Guts?"
"That's right," the old woman said firmly. "No matter how smart you are, if you don't have guts, you won't win."
She let that settle in for a moment before continuing.
"That young man read Tyr's personality right away—that's raw intelligence. He studied his opponent because he was already preparing for this mind game. He knew sooner or later he would have to compete because of conflict of interest."
Her gaze sharpened.
"If you're a low-ranking Rank 1—bottom of the ladder in money and status—and you can read a person's personality, a person who, if you defeat him using your mind, would send you from hell to heaven, do you really think you can defeat that man?"
Velurya hesitated, biting her lip, about to speak.
But before she could, the old woman cut in smoothly, voice firm and unwavering.
"You lost."
Velurya blinked, startled.
"What?"
"Yes," the old woman repeated. "You lost. You lack guts."
Confusion flickered across Velurya's face.
"What do you mean? Isn't that too fast? Why not let me think?"
The old woman's eyes glinted, sharp as a blade.
"Do you think everyone has time to wait for you? Opportunity only comes to those with the guts to compete for it."
She leaned closer, voice lowering.
"You ridiculed that young man earlier for having something handed to him on a silver platter. Yet when I gave you the same thing, you hesitated."
She paused, letting the words sink in.
"In that scenario, I already told you—you could read that man's personality. That was a silver platter."
"But what happened? You got intimidated by his status and resources."
Her gaze hardened.
"That's what you failed to see about him."
"The young man? He wasn't intimidated by Tyr's status. Even knowing Tyr's background could kill him a hundred times over with one wrong move—did he back down? No."
"He taunted. Used money. Intimidated. Read and outplayed."
"Every move, every word that crossed Tyr's mind—he already expected it."
The old woman's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she continued.
"This is how the young man implemented everything."
"He first studied Yuze—the one acting arrogant earlier."
"That guy was shitting on everyone, including you."
"But you hit back, even though it wasn't your business."
"He knew that if Yuze fought you with words, Yuze would realize they were on the same tier."
"Yet after you ridiculed Yuze, Yuze didn't mock you back—but he didn't back down either. Because he didn't want to get embarrassed."
"At that moment, the young man already understood something important."
"He realized Yuze was more or less weaker than you—maybe in status, maybe in strength. It didn't matter."
"To him, Yuze wasn't the real enemy."
"He treated you as the greater threat."
"The item comes up… and Tyr shows up."
"Yuze calls him a meathead. But Tyr doesn't get upset."
"That tells the young man two things. One: Tyr might be weaker—whether in strength or background—so he can't afford to taunt back. Or two: he's stronger, so he doesn't bother responding to someone beneath him."
She looked at Velurya now, gaze sharp.
"Then you stepped in. You taunted Tyr. And that's when his real nature came out."
"The young man already knew. He was watching."
"When you returned to the spotlight, that's when Tyr reacted—because that's when he felt threatened."
Velurya's throat grew dry. The hair on her skin stood up. Her spine felt cold.
The old woman went on, her tone unwavering.
"He didn't show much… but the young man already saw enough."
"Tyr is a prideful person."
"And prideful people, psychologically speaking, don't care about those below them. They only react to what they consider equal—or dangerous."
She leaned slightly closer.
"That's what pride does. It filters. If someone's beneath you, they're invisible. But if they stand shoulder to shoulder… or try to rise above…"
Her voice dropped into something quieter—deeper.
"…then you watch them."
She straightened again, letting the weight of it sink in.
"And that's what the young man saw. That was the moment he knew: Tyr didn't see Yuze as a threat."
"But he saw you."
Velurya's throat grew drier with every word. Her skin prickled. Her spine shivered as if someone were tracing a cold blade down her back. Something about this conversation—it was peeling her open.
The old woman's voice didn't stop.
"Yuze was then out of his equation. That meant he didn't have to fight him. Sooner or later, Yuze would get kicked out anyway."
She raised a finger.
"Tyr, on the other hand… he already knew at least the likely nature of his personality."
She glanced at Velurya, but didn't wait for a reply.
"How did he outplay Tyr?"
A pause—half a breath.
"Because he understood the nature of prideful men."
She leaned back slightly, calm, composed.
"He knew he couldn't fight Tyr's background—not directly."
"And how do I know that?" Her smile was cold. "Because this territory is already more or less under our influence. No one else comes here. No sects are worth mentioning. That means the young man is native—born here, raised here. He has no powerhouse backing him. And yet—he chose to fight someone who could erase him with a wrong glance."
She let that hang in the air.
"He knew he had to fight Tyr… and he knew he'd have to piss him off."
Her tone dropped.
"And with prideful men… there's something deeper than a superiority complex."
She tapped a knuckle gently against her armrest.
"It's a sickness… a kind of dominance addiction. They don't just think they're better. They need to prove it. Over and over."
Her gaze sharpened.
"Especially when someone they see as 'beneath' them dares to rise. It's not just about pride anymore. It's about punishment. Control. A cruel kind of pleasure in forcing the other to submit."
She locked eyes with Velurya.
"And the young man knew that."
"He knew that with that dominance instinct… if he lost here—whether in money or in wit—that instinct would be unleashed."
The old woman's voice was cool, but the weight behind it deepened.
"If Tyr won, he'd be provoked and validated. That's the worst combination."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if watching the pieces fall into place.
"In that scenario, Tyr's superiority complex would rise to the surface. He'd no longer see a competitor. Just prey. He wouldn't hesitate to call on his sect… or his father's power… to hunt the young man down."
A pause.
"Torture him. Break him. Not out of anger—but out of instinct. To remind the boy of his place."
Her fingers drummed lightly, deliberately.
"Because once a prideful man believes he's already won… he no longer needs to prove anything. That's when they feel the most shameless about using their background. To them, it's not cheating."
She leaned back slightly.
"It's entitlement. A twisted sense of justice. Dominance that doesn't need to be earned—only exercised."
Velurya's breath hitched. The air in the room felt tighter now, like the very walls were leaning in to listen.
The old woman's smile was faint—but sharp.
"Understand now why I told you that guts are the most important in this kind of battle?"
Velurya stayed quiet. Thoughtful. But the old woman didn't wait.
"After reading Tyr's personality and calculating the future possibilities… he waited. He held back—not out of fear, but precision. He needed one more thing: to gauge Tyr's raw intelligence."
Her tone grew steadier, like a teacher exposing the final layers of a lesson.
"And once he realized he was superior… then he began."
She raised a single finger.
"He waited. And waited. The fight was in a deadlock. Quiet tension. Mind games."
Her gaze sharpened.
"Then you entered again. You struck Tyr with a single comment—and in that decisive moment, you dropped a line. One statement."
Her eyes flicked toward Velurya.
"And to him, that was the final piece. The last gear in his machine."
She leaned slightly forward.
"He swept in. Claimed your words. Made them his own. The same words you called a silver platter."
She let the silence draw out for just a second longer, then added, voice cold:
"But I told you… only the gutsy reach for opportunity. He didn't care if he offended you—because he already read you too. Knew where the line was. Knew you wouldn't retaliate."
Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
"He took your statement. Flipped it. Used it as the killing blow."
A pause. Her tone hardened.
"Was it really a silver platter?"
She shook her head once.
"No. It wasn't given. He stole it."
Velurya could still feel the cold crawling along her spine, the shiver clinging to her skin like a phantom. But instead of silence, she finally spoke—quiet, but firm.
"Isn't he still in a precarious situation?" she asked. "You told me that prideful men like Tyr are shameless… that they'd use their background if they lost. And you said his background isn't even comparable to Tyr's. So—doesn't that make his win meaningless?"
The old woman smiled, a teasing glint in her eyes.
"Hehe… aren't you quite concerned for his safety?"
Velurya's eyes widened. Her face flushed with heat.
"W-What!? Who said I care for him!?"
Her voice rang out across the venue, echoing loud and clear.
Everyone turned.
Realizing what she'd just done, Velurya immediately slapped both hands over her mouth, eyes darting in embarrassment.
"I—I mean… I just think his win is useless, that's all…"
The old woman sighed, long and slow.
"You've already forgotten what I said." Her tone returned to calm instruction. "I literally told you that if Tyr had won, he'd most likely use his background to crush the boy later."
She raised a brow.
"But he didn't win, did he?"
Velurya blinked.
"That's why," the old woman continued, "Tyr, as a prideful man—based on his very nature—would only seek revenge with his own hands. Yes, he may still use his background to find the young man… but the final blow? That has to come from him personally."
Her voice dipped lower.
"And that is what I meant about his guts."
She leaned forward slightly.
"He had the guts to gamble on a battle like this. A battle where losing meant death. But winning? Winning meant survival—just barely. He used Yuze… used you… to read Tyr's character. He used money to keep bidding. He used the very system and rules of this place to protect himself. He took your statement and turned it into the final piece."
Her fingers tapped the table once, like a finishing move in chess.
"And then he used his own guts and raw intelligence to orchestrate it all."
She sat back, eyes gleaming.
"While the rest of you weren't even playing checkers—he was playing chess."