Meanwhile, the auction hall had quieted to a razor's edge, only three bidders still holding on.
One came from the public seating, squeezed among the rows of merchants and minor cultivators, while the other two were stationed high above in the upper VIP rooms.
Without a doubt, for a person from the open bench down here to bid against the private room's bidders caused quite a sensation across the venue.
"Two hundred thousand!" someone called out sharply, voice cutting across the hall.
Another followed almost instantly, "Two hundred and ten!"
The clash of numbers rang like hammer strikes.
Heads turned toward the sources, eyes darting between the balcony and the floor.
For a moment, the tension rested on a thin line, as if no one dared breathe too loudly.
Then, from the common seats, the same voice emerged again.
"Three hundred thousand."
The sound carried with a weightless calm.
Tone neither arrogant nor overbearing.
A cloaked figure, seated quietly in the middle rows, raised a single hand.
His movements were unhurried, his posture casual as it was.
Nothing leaked from him, no spiritual pressure, no nothing.
Like a piece of dead wood, standing out like a sore thumb within the crowd.
His hood cast a shadow over his features, leaving only an impression of stillness and distance.
A collective breath shivered through the crowd.
Especially those who were close to him.
A ripple of whispers followed, rolling down the rows like water spilling over stone.
People craned their necks, some rising slightly from their seats, trying to glimpse something beneath the cloak.
"Hmph!"
Up above, one of the VIP bidders pressed forward in his chair, jaw tightening visibly.
His hand snapped up as he growled, "Three hundred and ten thousand!" His tone carried irritation, as though forced into the bid rather than offering it with pride.
After all, the item at stake was something that his family really needed at the moment.
"I can't return empty handed today, this pill is mine!"
Then again, he shouted, "Three hundred and ninety thousand!"
Without pause, the cloaked figure raised his hand again.
"Four hundred thousand."
A polite clap.
The words landed softly, yet they pressed harder than any shout.
His voice was steady, as though he were reciting a fact rather than making a gamble.
"You—!" The VIP bidder choked on his words, eyes widening for an instant.
His body jerked, half ready to spring from his seat, but he stopped himself.
The memory of that earlier divine pressure still weighed on him, the kind that left marrow trembling.
He faltered, his bravado draining away in silence.
With visible strain, he lowered his hand, knuckles pale from how tightly he had clenched them.
Across from him, the second VIP competitor leaned back in his chair.
His lips curled into a faint smile, and a low laugh rumbled from his throat. "I concede," he said, voice casual but not mocking.
He lifted his cup as if to toast the moment, then lowered it with a satisfied nod. "You've earned my respect, friend."
His words were aimed at the person below that outbid the two of them in VIP rooms.
The final words sealed the outcome.
The hall, which had been locked in sharp stillness, erupted once more.
Murmurs flooded the air.
"Who is this Senior?"
"Four hundred thousand, just like that…"
"Impossible. A man like that shouldn't be sitting down here among us."
"Maybe to be low-key as possible?"
Guesses leaned toward the air, their whispers rising into a dull roar of speculation.
Those sitting close to the cloaked figure shifted in their seats, unable to hide their curiosity.
Their eyes fixed on him, questions piling at the edge of their tongues.
But of course, none dared to openly ask.
For a person to wantonly flaunt his wealth, there must be enough strength to back it up.
Most cultivators here were Qi refining realm monks, they knew better which individuals can be provoked or not.
The mysterious cloaked man remained still, unyielding as a stone statue, wrapped in silence that made him all the more unreadable.
The curiosity in the air grew.
Even the Vip bidders high up in their rooms became interested.
Such a commotion stirred the hall that Liam instinctively spread out his divine mind again, like an unseen tide spilling across the chamber.
The monks packed into the benches remained oblivious, for his probing was undetectable to most cultivators.
Only the foundation building monks might be able to sense his probing.
Almost at once, his focus caught on a cloaked figure seated low among the benches.
His will pressed down firmly, focusing onto that hidden presence as if fastening a nail into wood.
The figure didn't flinch outwardly, yet Liam felt the faintest resistance, a ripple against his divine sweep.
Like a small cocoon of thoughts, a not too powerful divine mind shielded this person briefly, but it was only for a moment.
Liam caught it instantly.
As for the mysterious man, his eyes narrowed slightly, a faint glimmer flickering through them.
'What is this?'
'Someone is investigating me?'
There was no overt hostility, no burst of killing intent, no nothing even.
It wasn't mere chance that he remained so quiet, tucked away where no one's gaze lingered.
Almost as though provoked by Liam's silent scrutiny, the figure slowly raised his head.
The hall remained loud around them, but for that brief instant, Liam's awareness closed in on that one motion.
Their eyes never met directly, the hood's shadow kept the face concealed, but still Liam felt it.
An unsettling certainty slid into his chest, the way one might sense being stalked from the darkness.
It wasn't anything threatening, not even worth his time to fight back.
But this without a doubt, caught him by surprise.
Then, without warning, Liam let out a sudden laugh.
Boom!
"Hahahaha!" His voice carried, ringing against the high beams of the hall.
Heads turned in confusion, monks blinking at the sudden burst of sound.
"Good! Good! Such bravery!" Liam slapped his thigh with a resounding smack, his laughter rolling out with an edge of genuine amusement.
Startled by the outburst, Ilya flinched at his side, her hand instinctively tightening on the folds of her robe.
She turned toward him, brows furrowed. "What… what's so funny?" she asked quietly, clearly at a loss.
Liam only shook his head with a faint grin.
"Nothing," he said, giving her no explanation.
Instead, his gaze drifted once more toward the cloaked figure, his expression unreadable.
For a breath longer he let his divine mind press against that concealed soul, as though savoring its presence.
Boom!
Almost instinctively, the cloaked figure felt it. As if a mountain came crashing down onto his seat.
Boom!
Creaked!
Creaked!
The sudden burst of pressure scared the surrounding monks.
Due to the lack of understanding, they thought the mysterious expert was practicing a secret art, even at such a place.
"Such dedication to the immortal path!"
But what they didn't know was that, the so called mysterious expert was sweating profusely.
His body felt heavy, as if a huge invisible hand was palming down from above.
Then, just as deliberately, Liam drew it back into himself.
The pressure vanished.
On the benches below, the cloaked figure's shoulders sagged.
His breath came out in a quiet rush the moment that suffocating weight lifted from his chest.
The hood tilted downward again, shading his face from view.
The flickering lamplight above barely caught the faintest sliver of skin beneath the folds of cloth.
But composure? There was none.
His jaw was clenched tight, lips trembling despite his best effort to hide it.
His teeth clicked faintly, betraying the way they rattled.
Every trace of panic had been shoved down, tucked deep under the layers of cloak and stillness.
To any casual glance he looked calm, almost indifferent.
Yet beneath the cover of fabric, he was breaking apart.
"Damn it, old man," he muttered, teeth gritted, voice pressed low enough that no one beside him could hear.
The words scraped out raw, sharp with a youthful edge. "Why the hell did you use my body to do that just now?!"
The ceiling lamps above threw uneven shadows across his features.
Beneath the hood was a face that might have gone unnoticed in a crowd: lines plain and unremarkable, hair short and ashen-gray, cut without care.
Yet now those same features twisted into something else, eyes widened with panic, mouth quivering with restrained anger, the entire expression caught between fear and disbelief.
His whisper cracked into a frustrated hiss. "Do you want me exposed? Or worse, killed?!"
His hand clenched into a fist under the bench, nails digging deep enough into his palm to sting.
The other monks in the row barely spared him a glance, too caught up in the aftershocks of Liam's laughter.
But he sat stiff, chest rising and falling unevenly beneath the cloak, mind racing.
Inside that trembling body, the youth's words hung unanswered.