Floating Island - Triple S Talent

"Honored guests!" Wei Liang's voice boomed across the auction hall, as confident as ever. "The item in my hand should be familiar to many of you—this is a replica of the Blueprint of the Sword of Judgment, forged by none other than the legendary Godsmith himself!"

His tone rose, laced with theatrical flair.

"Yes, it's only a replica… but do not underestimate it! The knowledge contained within is enough to enlighten even Grandmaster smiths! A true treasure for anyone seeking to transcend the limits of forging technique!"

Lein narrowed his eyes, analyzing every word. Wei Liang was a master of stirring the crowd, a performer who knew how to make anything sound invaluable—even when it wasn't. This time, though, the item really did hold weight.

"And who knows," Wei Liang continued, his grin widening as his gaze swept across the VIP rows, "if one of you manages to complete this manual… then the Sword of Judgment, the blade wielded by emperors of legend, could very well be yours."

A wave of murmurs rippled through the hall. The tension rose palpably.

Finally, Wei Liang announced the opening bid in a rich, clear voice.

"Starting at one thousand high-grade essence! Maximum bid increment: one hundred!"

The response was immediate.

"1.100!"

"1.300!"

"1.500!"

"2.100!"

Bids exploded like cannon fire. The auction floor roared with the fevered voices of eager contenders. And it wasn't just the VIPs—voices rang out from the second and third floors as well, where powerful aides and envoys of ruling clans observed from the shadows.

Three thousand five hundred...

The price kept climbing, closing in on four thousand. Yet Lein hadn't moved. Like a statue, he sat in still silence—though in his mind, strategies were already forming.

Efan raised an eyebrow, clicking his tongue softly.

"Everyone's getting way too excited... Do they actually know what that scroll is worth, or are they just following the herd?"

His voice carried a trace of sarcasm, but beneath it was a growing concern. He hated competing with those who had 'special' senses like his.

Laras offered a faint smile and turned to him.

"You're not the only one who can sniff out treasure, Efan. The world's bigger than you think."

Before Efan could shoot back a reply, Elder Fian—who had remained silent this entire time—finally spoke.

"Elder Lein," he said, his voice heavier than usual, as if weighed by something unspoken. "Do you not plan to bid on this item?"

Lein turned to him slowly, his gaze sharp but composed. He studied the old man for a moment, noting the barely concealed eagerness in his expression.

"I will," Lein replied calmly. "But not yet. Why do you ask?"

Elder Fian exhaled, long and quiet—like a man watching a dream slip away.

"No reason, Elder Lein," he said after a pause. "I only thought... if you weren't interested, perhaps we could join forces to obtain it."

Lein gave a small nod in response, offering no further comment. But inwardly, his resolve had solidified.

That scroll would be his.

The auction surged on. The current bid had now reached 7000 high-grade essence.

"7000 five hundred," called out a middle-aged man in fine robes. Reclined casually in one of the main VIP seats, his chin lifted slightly as he eyed the elegant woman across from him. There was a sharpness in his stare, though his voice carried a teasing lilt.

The woman smiled faintly and straightened her back with poise. Clad in a black gown studded with gleaming jewels, she crossed her legs and replied in a soft, unwavering tone:

"Eight thousand."

Her voice struck the hall like the toll of a war bell.

The other contenders—fat young nobles, pale-robed heiresses, even arrogant cultivators—fell silent in unison. They understood instantly.

This was no longer their fight.

From afar, Lein narrowed his eyes. So these are the true heavyweights of this floor…

The middle-aged man chuckled lowly, unfazed. He leaned further back into his chair, gazing at the woman with an almost flirtatious tone.

"What a pity, my lady," he said airily. "At this rate, your family fortune might vanish for the sake of one little scroll."

The woman remained unmoved. Her expression was as placid as a morning lake. Without answering, she picked up her teacup and took a slow sip, utterly indifferent to his provocation.

Wei Liang, watching eagerly from the stage, began his countdown.

"Eight thousand… going once!"

His gaze darted to the man, hoping for a reaction.

"Eight thousand… going twice!"

His voice rose with anticipation, yearning for another burst of bidding.

But—

The man said nothing. No rebuttal, no retort. Just silence.

"Why isn't he saying anything?" whispered one young lord, frowning.

"Could it be… he can't afford to go higher?" another speculated.

"All bark, and now? He's just sitting there like a statue!"

Murmurs filled the hall, growing louder, bolder. Some dared to mock openly—unaware they were poking a sleeping dragon.

The man remained still, as steady as a stone. Only his eyes moved—glancing sideways toward the young man beside him. A small nod.

In the next instant, that young man vanished.

No sound. No aura disturbance. Just a sudden, chilling absence.

"Be sure to take responsibility for your words," the older man said softly.

Calm. Unthreatening. Yet his words pierced the air like icicles.

A cold silence swept across the room. His voice lingered in the minds of all who had laughed before—sharp and deadly.

Among the crowd, the fat noble and the white-robed girl exchanged glances. Their faces stiffened, as though they'd only just grasped the depth of danger seated before them.

"I told you not to provoke him," someone muttered from the back rows, their tone tinged with dread. "If you still want to live... get out of here. Leave this realm entirely. Take your family and go."

Cold sweat dripped down foreheads. The arrogance from earlier drained away, replaced by pale fear. Some could endure no longer—they rose from their seats and hurried from the auction hall, as if death itself were chasing them.

Meanwhile, Wei Liang composed himself and returned to his role.

"Eight thousand… going three times!"

He raised his gavel, preparing to strike.

But before it could fall—

"Eight thousand one hundred."

A calm voice.

Not loud, but clear enough to stop every breath in the room.

The middle-aged man raised an eyebrow. Slowly, he turned to face the source.

Beside him, the old man who had remained quiet up until now leaned close and whispered something in his ear—his gaze locked squarely on one person.

Lein.