The younger woman's gaze lingered on the restless crowd, her arms loosely crossed. There was no smile on her face now—just a quiet tightness around her eyes, like someone who'd heard this story too many times in too many lifetimes.
The elder beside her didn't need to look to know what she was thinking. Her voice rose again, calm and firm.
"Even if it leaves them lonely," she said, "it still has its purpose."
The younger woman tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing.
"You mean that pride?"
"No," the elder replied, shaking her head faintly. "Not just pride. Pride is the mask. What lives beneath it is deeper—something closer to conviction. An unshakable belief in one's own worth, whether or not the world agrees. Some call it arrogance. Some call it madness."
She paused to glance toward the private booths.
"But it's that very thing that drives people past their limits. That makes someone throw themselves into impossible battles. That makes them defy fate, realms, gods."
The younger woman scoffed under her breath. "It also gets them killed."
A flicker of a smile touched the elder's lips—not amused, but understanding.
"It does. Especially men. They burn too fast, too hot. Always trying to prove they're untouchable, even when no one's watching. Women have it too, of course—anyone who dares to climb needs it—but we often carry it differently. Quietly. Measured."
She folded her hands.
"But don't mistake restraint for absence. That drive—whether you call it pride, spirit, or something else entirely—is in nearly every person who ever made it to the top."
The younger woman didn't answer right away. Her fingers tapped against her arm, thoughtful.
"And if they don't learn to balance it?"
The old woman looked at her.
"Then it devours them. That kind of belief, when it grows without discipline, becomes delusion. And delusion, child, is how the strong fall."
The younger woman said nothing.
Her thoughts swirled—sharp and tangled. She wanted to scoff, to argue, to say that strength built on pride was just another kind of weakness. But the words wouldn't come. Not because she didn't believe them… but because, deep down, a part of her recognized the truth in what the elder had said.
That conviction—no matter how reckless—had its power.
That arrogance, when refined, became something terrifying.
She exhaled slowly, barely audible.
But the auctioneer didn't give her time to think.
A sharp clang rang out as a servant struck a small ceremonial gong onstage, cutting clean through the murmur of the crowd. All eyes shifted forward again as the curtain behind the platform drew back—revealing the next item.
"Next," the auctioneer's crisp voice echoed across the chamber, smooth and authoritative, "we present a spiritual-grade weapon recovered from the Blackroot Valley ruins—an early-stage Rank 2 longsword, forged from dusksteel and tempered in moonfire essence."
A collective breath was drawn.
Not as flashy as the previous item. Not veiled in mystery or shrouded in ancient origins. But useful. Practical. Deadly in the right hands.
The sword lay atop a silk-draped pedestal—its blade a dark, matte silver, with faint bluish veins running through the metal like lightning trapped in iron. No extravagant ornamentation, no pomp. Just lethal, clean craftsmanship.
"A perfect companion for body cultivators or dual-affinity sword users," the auctioneer continued. "Balanced, durable, and light enough to channel elemental qi without warping under pressure. The starting bid: 700 spiritual stones."
A few murmurs rose again—but this time, no mockery. No arrogance. Just calculation. Appraisal. Hunger.
Hands began to twitch.
This wasn't a legendary artifact meant to draw gasps.
This was a weapon someone could kill with tomorrow.
And that made it dangerous in a different way.
"Seven-fifty," someone called from the mid-section, voice tight with restraint.
"Eight hundred," followed another from the upper rows, their tone clipped and businesslike.
"Nine hundred."
"One thousand."
The air sharpened again—but not from awe this time.
This tension was practical. Grounded. Real.
Back in the shadowed alcove, the younger woman's lips thinned slightly as she watched the bids rise. Her earlier thoughts still lingered in the back of her mind—but for now, the world had moved on.
And in this world, it didn't matter what you felt about pride.
Only whether you had enough power to make others kneel.
"One thousand."
"One thousand one hundred."
The numbers ticked upward—quick, but not frantic. No one shouted. No one stood. The bidders in this round were quiet and calculating, voices low and restrained, like gamblers at a high-stakes table who couldn't afford to fold, but didn't dare overreach.
From her alcove, the younger woman watched with mild disinterest, her earlier thoughts still lingering at the edges of her mind like smoke that refused to fade.
"One thousand two hundred."
"One thousand three hundred."
The bidding was steady—but lacked the fiery clamor that had filled the hall earlier. It wasn't that the item wasn't worth attention. It was.
A Rank 2 spiritual weapon was no small thing.
But the room had changed.
This wasn't about spectacle or mystery anymore. This was about opportunity. Practicality. Reality.
And that reality was simple: everyone bidding here was still at Rank 1.
They weren't sect elders. Not heirs of great clans. Not old monsters in young skins. Just cultivators clawing their way upward, inch by inch.
If they'd been offered a Rank 1 weapon, most would've scoffed—too common. Not worth bidding for in a place like this.
But something too grand, too radiant? They wouldn't dare reach for it. Their pockets weren't deep enough, their ambition not yet justified by cultivation.
So this weapon… this Rank 2 longsword made from dusksteel, tempered in moonfire essence—this was the perfect bait.
It was slightly above their station.
Just enough to tempt.
Not enough to cripple.
"One thousand four hundred."
The auctioneer's expression didn't change, but behind that calm façade, she understood the strategy perfectly. The Pavilion's elders had debated long over what to present for this portion of the auction. This was a calculated move, not generosity.
The sword's true market value—assuming no elemental affinities or hidden enchantments—hovered around two thousand to twenty-two hundred spiritual stones in higher-tier markets.
Here?
They'd be lucky to scrape fifteen hundred.
But that was fine.
The goal wasn't profit. Not from the items.
The goal was the event.
A prestige auction, hosted under the Pavilion's name—even one that ran at a marginal loss—paid for itself through the entrance fees, the networking leverage, and the favors traded in whispers between curtains.
One sword sold cheap was still a bargain, when the name Moonlit Pavilion echoed louder by the end of the night.
"One thousand five hundred," a voice called from the side row—measured and final.
A pause followed.
No immediate counter.
Silence.
But not everyone was pleased.
A young man in deep green robes, seated a few seats down, cut a glance toward the bidder—a slow, sideways look from the corner of his eye. Not hostile, but sharp, unmistakable. His hand drummed once on the armrest, knuckles taut with restraint.
He didn't say anything. But in the world of cultivators, looks often spoke louder than words.
So you're the one who took it.
Let's see if you can keep it.
The bidder gave no reaction. Either he didn't notice—or didn't care.
The auctioneer waited a few seconds longer, then nodded with a graceful sweep of her hand.
"One thousand five hundred spiritual stones," she announced. "Sold."
A light applause followed—not for the sword, but for the bidder bold enough to end it.
Nothing explosive. Just a ripple of acknowledgment.
Back in the booth, the younger woman exhaled through her nose.
It was just a small sword. Nothing rare. Nothing legendary. A Rank 2 weapon, plain and simple.
And yet… the way people reacted to it told her everything.
No one shouted during the bidding. No one fought. But there were eyes—sharp, calculating, some jealous, others bitter. Someone even side-eyed the buyer, clearly annoyed they hadn't won it themselves. It was subtle, but it was there.
This wasn't about the sword anymore.
It was about what it represented.
Everyone in that room was Rank 1—struggling to climb. And that weapon, even if modest, was a step ahead. Owning it meant standing out, even slightly. And that was enough to shift the mood in the hall.
Enough to make people tense.
That was power.
Not the flashy kind. Not the kind that comes from strength or aura or bloodline.
But the quiet kind—the kind that makes others pause, glance sideways, grit their teeth in silence.
Even a small sword could do that.
And to her, that said more than any treasure.