By the time the styling and makeup were finally done, it was already late afternoon. Han Ling suspected that his stepmother had only asked him to attend this event to torment him.
Because his face had barely any flaws to begin with, the makeup artist didn't have to fuss much. The problem, however, lay in the custom-made suit his stepmother had prepared
It utterly failed to suit him. The designer, clearly dissatisfied, insisted on finding a better option.
After a quick discussion with Butler Liu, the designer hurried off to locate something more fitting...or rather, something that could be worn by Han Ling, which ended up taking quite some time as well.
Though bored, Han Ling wasn't foolish enough to talk about their ongoing investigation in a public place. He merely chatted about trivial things with Grant. Leander, it seemed, was busy too; otherwise, he would've replied instantly.
Once everything was finally settled, it was already past one in the afternoon. Originally, Grant had invited Han Ling to ride his spaceship together to the charity auction. But for reasons unknown, Butler Liu insisted that Han Ling not take anyone else's ship.
Han Ling suspected it was an order from his stepmother probably to preserve the Han family's public image. She had likely instructed Butler Liu not to let him stray from expectations.
Han Ling didn't make things difficult. He simply let Grant leave first and planned to fly separately. Unexpectedly, Grant just shrugged and said, "Then I'll ride your ship instead. Doesn't make a difference."
Han Ling: …
Were people from this city all this shameless?
In the end, the two boarded the Han family's spaceship together and headed to the auction venue.
The Triennial Liguang Charity Auction was one of the city's most prestigious social events.
Held in the most exclusive private club in the northern part of the city, the venue sprawled across nearly a thousand square meters. Doors opened at 2 p.m., and the official auction wouldn't start until 4. In the meantime, a variety of social mixers, art exhibitions, and brand showcases were arranged essentially a half-day festival for the elite. The entire space had been transformed into a floating glass palace, with sunlight streaming through towering skylights, dazzling as it struck crystal chandeliers and polished silverware.
Those who received invitations were either wealthy or powerful. Leaders from finance, fashion, politics, entertainment, and the rising tech industry filled the room. Voices of different languages and accents wove through the air, and the guests, dressed in refined evening wear and elegant makeup, moved with practiced grace—even as veiled tension and subtle competition simmered beneath the surface.
At the heart of the main hall stood a grand auction stage, backed by a massive LED screen displaying the origins and estimated values of each item. The auction lots ranged from famous paintings and antique relics to limited-edition luxury goods—and even intangible assets, such as an exclusive dinner with a corporate magnate, or a private event designed by an international master chef.
The auction was hosted by the Liguang Foundation, a well-known organization in the philanthropic world, with annual donations surpassing billions. Yet those in the know understood—this wasn't just about charity. This was also a stage for the elite to flaunt their resources and influence. Who bid the highest, who mingled with whom, and who sat in which row could all shift the headlines in the financial or entertainment sectors the next day.
And amidst this dazzling display of social spectacle, there were always a few who remained quietly on the sidelines. Seemingly low-key guests, though it was all just appearances. Others stood silently nearby, subtly watching.
Three such individuals were Han Ling, Leander, and Grant.
Han Ling was already feeling a headache coming on. All he did was step off the ship with Grant, and somehow, Leander had caught wind of it and showed up, silently glaring at him with an expression that screamed betrayal.
"Later," Han Ling muttered, giving Leander a push. "People are watching."
Grant, clearly enjoying the drama, trailed behind like he was watching a show.
"What are you doing here?" Leander asked curiously. Events like this were typically attended by family heads or official representatives. The Han family held considerable status—it was unheard of for someone without real inheritance rights like Han Ling to attend, even if he was currently the only child of the family head.
"I could ask you the same," Han Ling said dryly. "My stepmother tossed me here."
"Maybe something's going on back at their end," Grant chimed in, beginning to speculate. "Otherwise, why send you?"
"Isn't this the perfect excuse to attend a networking event?" Han Ling raised a brow. He had felt for days now that the Han family was hiding something—but surely it wasn't serious enough to skip an auction of this scale.
Besides, he had originally planned to bring his spirit sword, Xiao Yun, with him. But the little thing had stubbornly refused, insisting on staying home...
Which only confirmed his suspicion—his spirit sword, bound to him in secret, was hiding something from him.
Moreover, he'd seen a few items in the auction catalog that looked suspiciously like spirit tools. He wasn't certain yet, but if spirit artifacts were appearing, and no one was reacting... something wasn't right.
While Han Ling pondered, Leander had already pulled him toward the food section, Grant bouncing along behind. There, they bumped into Hang Zhongxuan and Cen Wenyu—Zhongxuan was choosing desserts for Wenyu, with an expression of quiet devotion.
"You're quite the domestic type," Han Ling whispered in Leander's ear. Leander didn't react, merely asked what he wanted to eat and grabbed it for him. Grant, watching from the side, was visibly envious.
It reminded him of a certain relationship from before…
Lingzhao… where the hell are you?
Hang Zhongxuan and Cen Wenyu gave them a polite nod—nothing more. With so many eyes around, it was safer to pretend they didn't know each other well.
After some food and drinks, it was nearly time for the auction to begin. They sat according to the name tags provided by the organizers. To Han Ling's surprise, the Han family's seats were closer to the front than expected.
Third row.
He had attended many auctions in the Immortal Realm—he knew what proximity to the front symbolized. But what surprised him even more was that his boyfriend, Leander, was seated first row.
He hadn't realized Leander had that level of status.
And as if that weren't enough, Grant sat right next to him.
Han Ling couldn't help but glance at him. "Why are you over here?"
"My family's got money too, you know!"
Han Ling was stunned. He'd thought Grant was just another rich kid—not a super rich one.
Just then, a few servers came by and distributed updated catalogs for the inner auction. These included detailed information about the origins of each item.
The auction was about to officially begin, and the atmosphere was already growing electric. Champagne and whispers flowed, silk gowns brushing past suits, power rubbing shoulders with prestige.
Han Ling sat in the third row. Grant was on his right. The seat to his left had just been taken by an unexpected guest.
An old man.
Dressed in a neatly tailored suit, he leaned on a deep-brown wooden cane. His steps were slow, but his aura was commanding. As he walked past Han Ling, he didn't spare him a glance—but released a thread of divine sense.
It was thin and invasive, like a spider's silk creeping toward Han Ling, carrying a detached yet oppressive scrutiny. As though rifling through an ancient relic—calm, cold, but alarmingly precise.
Han Ling's gaze sharpened.
This wasn't the kind of spiritual probing a casual cultivator would release. It was the focused, deliberate scan of a high-tier cultivator—possibly someone in the Ear Path or above. That old man was here for him.
Han Ling didn't retaliate immediately. Instead, he straightened his posture and slightly lowered his gaze. The moment the divine sense brushed against the edge of his sea of consciousness, he quietly summoned his natal aura, forming a gentle, water-like barrier.
Soft yet resilient.
It deflected the probe effortlessly—neither exposing his identity nor clashing head-on. To the old man, it would feel like... nothing. A complete void, like probing a true mortal with no spiritual signature.
Han Ling could tell the man wasn't weak. But he wasn't some pushover either. If not for the setting, he would've tried to test the man further.
For just a split second, Han Ling caught a whiff of something... murky and corrupted, laced deep within that divine sense.
Not human.
When the probing ended, the old man sat down beside him as if nothing had happened. He didn't speak. Didn't even glance at Han Ling.
But Han Ling knew—that test had been intentional. The man had mistaken him for someone else.
Perhaps… a ghost from the past? Or the soul of someone who shouldn't be here?
Whatever his intent, Han Ling had no plans to expose himself.
He adjusted his aura again, suppressing all fluctuations to mortal levels—even his breathing pattern now matched that of an ordinary human. He melted into the opulent, mask-wearing crowd around him.
"You resemble someone I used to know," the old man suddenly spoke.
"…No… I'm not," Han Ling replied softly, keeping to the persona of the original Han Ling—weak and unassuming. The old man felt too strange. Han Ling didn't want to reveal anything.
The old man looked disappointed, then fell silent.
Han Ling, without turning his head, reached out with his divine sense to speak to Grant—startling him nearly out of his seat.
Grant turned toward him, wide-eyed. "Don't look at me like that—face forward. Act normal."
"That old man next to me is dangerous," Han Ling warned. "I'm using divine sense to talk. It's safer."
"Okay, okay! Wait, I can talk like this too?!"
"This is my divine sense space. Don't alarm anyone else."
Grant still looked like he was witnessing a miracle. Han Ling ignored him. His instincts were rarely wrong—and right now, they were screaming.
The auction hall featured a high-ceilinged design, with lighting focused on the main stage and VIP seating area on the ground floor, while the farther seats gradually receded into shadow. The second floor was a semi-circular spectator gallery, with seats lined along the railing. The view of the stage from above was clear, but it was obvious that this level was designated for "watching," not "participating."
Seated there were mostly obscure indie directors, washed-up celebrities, commercial performers, or rookies forced to attend by their agencies to fill seats.
Such a position was far from the action—unable to truly bid on anything, barely able to watch the spectacle unfold.
Grant sat with his arms crossed, bored, idly watching the parade of meaningless auction items. His gaze drifted, almost by accident, upward—past the glittering crystal chandelier and the massive display screen—
And locked eyes with someone on the second floor.
It was a face he knew all too well.
Chen Qiyue.
He sat near the railing, sharply dressed in a tailored suit, exuding casual detachment, as if watching a play that had nothing to do with him. His fingers toyed absentmindedly with a ring on his middle finger. And when the woman beside him—wearing a black dress—turned her head, Grant felt his heart seize.
Ling Ning.
Despite the distance and dim lighting, the hatred and resentment in her eyes were so intense, they seemed to cut through the air like blades—striking him squarely in the chest.
Why should she be sitting up there, forced to spectate, instead of being in the center spotlight downstairs—just like her brother Ling Zhao had once been?
Unconsciously, she clenched her fists, a surge of fury rising in her chest.
Han Ling noticed the change in Grant's expression and turned slightly. "What's wrong?"
Grant's gaze stayed fixed on the second floor, but he responded telepathically, "I see them."
"Who?"
"Chen Qiyue and Ling Ning. They're up there, watching us." Grant's voice grew darker. "The look on Ling Ning's face just now… it was like she was gritting her teeth, barely holding back. She looks like she wants to tear everyone here apart."
Han Ling tilted his head slightly, glancing toward the shadowed upper floor. "Turn your head back. What the hell are they doing here?"
Grant obeyed, turning his head while still replying via spiritual sense. "Probably because someone at the club saw through their background. They're lucky they were even let in. People who can't make a proper entrance have no choice but to sit upstairs."
As the charity auction officially began, the lights dimmed slightly. A spotlight hit the stage as the host—now wearing a silver-gray suit—stepped forward with a smooth, familiar smile, just like every previous year.
"Welcome to this year's Hope Charity Auction. We'll be presenting over thirty donated treasures throughout the evening…" he gestured toward the back, and the first item was wheeled onto the stage: a short dagger embedded with sapphires.
Han Ling sat composed among the crowd, flipping through the auction catalog. His expression was calm, though a hint of vigilance lingered in his eyes. He hadn't come tonight to donate or to make a show of himself.
The catalog in his hands, beautifully printed, listed several items tagged "uncertain if spiritually imbued." These caught his eye.
Among them: a rust-covered bronze bell, a cracked hand mirror, and a strangely shaped ceramic oil lamp. None were explicitly labeled as magical tools, yet all emitted faint, intermittent traces of spiritual energy. Not strong—but for a cultivator, anomalies like this were like a glimmer of fire in the dark: impossible to ignore.
The auctioneer lifted the dagger and smiled as he introduced it. "This ancient dagger was donated anonymously. Its origins are unknown, but the previous collector claimed to have seen it glow in a dream. However, after testing, no spiritual or magical activity has been detected."
Still, someone raised a paddle.
Someone chuckled, "What if it's a dormant spiritual tool? Could be a lucky find."
"Worth a gamble—it's for charity anyway," another added.
Han Ling's gaze cooled. He quietly closed the catalog.
The awakening of a spiritual tool wasn't something a casual dream could determine. One after another, these so-called "rare items" rolled onto the stage, most of them likely broken remnants or common relics misinterpreted by amateurs.
His interest waned. He began to wonder if he had wasted his time coming at all—
Until the seventeenth item was brought out.
A brooch.
Simple yet elegant in design, the silver-white metal formed a partially blooming lisianthus flower. The petals were delicately crafted, with a pale violet crystal embedded at the center. The moment it was placed on the display stand, the room fell momentarily silent.
It wasn't shockingly extravagant, but under the spotlight, it radiated a quiet, inexplicable allure—like a lingering trace of an ancient memory nestled between the petals.
The auctioneer smiled as he introduced it, "This brooch was donated by a well-known collector. Supposedly it was custom-made for a former lover. Our technicians found no detectable magic or spiritual activity—currently classified as an ordinary magical accessory with no functional abilities. If anything… it's simply a well-designed ornament."
A few polite chuckles rippled through the crowd.
"So just a trinket? Or a broken magical item?"
"Looks like something you'd gift someone. Romantic, but not practical."
Han Ling, however, froze, eyes locked on the brooch.
For a split second, he thought he smelled a faint floral scent—not from any spiritual array or triggered magic, but that same subtle scent Grant always carried with him.
His fingers curled unconsciously, a prickle of pain blooming in his palm.
This feeling was… not normal.
Sitting beside him, Grant also noticed his reaction and asked via spiritual sense, "You felt it too? There's something wrong with that brooch, isn't there?"
Han Ling didn't answer. His gaze remained fixed on the item.
Then Grant frowned slightly. "It just hit me… back when I was still dating Ling Zhao, I gave him a bouquet of lisianthus once."
Han Ling flinched finally turning to look at him.
"Didn't you say you kept dreaming of a field of lisianthus flowers? What if… this is related?"
Silence fell like a blanket. On stage, the brooch still lay quietly in its case, untouched. No one had made a bid yet. It seemed the audience had little interest.
Han Ling didn't look at Grant again but his voice was firm in Grant's mind: "Bid on it."
Grant hesitated. "Are you sure? It might really be just a useless trinket."
"My gut tells me… this brooch isn't what it seems."
Grant didn't ask further. He raised his paddle.
The auctioneer instantly brightened. "Bidder No. 27, offering twenty-five thousand. Do we have another bid?"
Silence for a beat then someone calmly raised a paddle. "Thirty thousand."
Grant narrowed his eyes. "So someone does want to fight me for it."
Han Ling muttered, "Even ordinary magic items are rare in this world now…"
"Thirty-five."
"Forty-two."
The bids volleyed back and forth until the final price settled at fifty-six thousand.
The auctioneer beamed. "Sold! To bidder No. 27 for fifty-six thousand. Congratulations on acquiring tonight's most poetic magical artifact."
Han Ling let out a silent breath.
Fifty-six thousand a modest sum compared to other auction items. But for a "non-magical" brooch, it was... unusually high.
The brooch was carefully boxed and brought to their seat. Grant took the case personally. For a moment, neither of them opened it.
Inside, the brooch lay still waiting.
Waiting to be touched.
Waiting to awaken a truth long buried in silence.