The charity auction hall shimmered with dazzling lights, echoing with the laughter and clinking glasses of social elites. Dressed in a finely tailored suit, Han Ling sat composedly in the front row, his gaze piercing through the crystal chandeliers to land on a brooch displayed on stage. Shaped like a lisianthus, the design wasn't anything extravagant silver-white petals encasing a small bluish-purple gem low-key, yet exuding quiet elegance.
He didn't know why the brooch caught his attention. As a cultivator, Han Ling rarely cared for mundane trinkets, especially one that held no apparent spiritual function. But the moment the brooch appeared, a sharp twinge in his sixth sense flared. Almost without hesitation, he motioned for Grant to place a bid and win it.
"Does it have something to do with your dream?" Grant asked telepathically, excitement rippling through his spiritual voice after winning the bid.
"Hmm... hard to say. Just a feeling it might come in handy someday." Han Ling replied flatly, but his eyes never left the brooch.
The gavel fell, and Grant secured the item. He collected the brooch from a staff member and returned quietly to his seat. The rest of the auction held little interest for him—mostly artworks, antiques, or corporate giveaways. None of it mattered.
Han Ling, too, had lost all interest after acquiring the brooch, instead wondering why he reacted so strongly to it.
Bored, Grant began scanning the hall. Suddenly, he squinted, turning his gaze toward the balcony on the second floor—toward Chen Qiyue.
There, Chen Qiyue was caressing his fingers... and repeatedly kissing them?
Perplexed, Grant nudged Han Ling with his spiritual sense. "Hey, check out Chen Qiyue."
Following Grant's gaze, Han Ling, with his sharp eyesight, spotted Chen Qiyue sitting alone. He wasn't talking to anyone. Instead, his head was bowed, calmly stroking the knuckle of his right hand. The repetitive motion was oddly excessive.
"What's he doing?" Grant frowned. "Kissing his fingers...?"
Han Ling narrowed his eyes, expression darkening. "Not his fingers. The ring. He's kissing the ring."
"The ring?" Grant blinked. Then his pupils shrank. "Wait... didn't he and Ling Zhao have a pair of matching rings?!"
Those rings had been their love tokens—simple in design, made from rare material by a famous artifact master, and said to carry a faint soul-linked charm. Grant remembered vividly that Ling Zhao never took his off. The memory made Grant ache with guilt and regret. If only he had restrained his temper, maybe they would still be together, both wearing their rings.
But—
"I didn't see the ring when they found the body," Grant said, his voice tightening. His lips pressed into a thin line, suspicion flashing in his eyes.
Han Ling noticed the change in tone. "You're sure you didn't see it back then?"
"Positive."
"Got it."
Without changing his expression, Han Ling focused his divine sense and threaded a sliver of it through the crowd, directing it toward Cen Wenyu in the second row. He instructed Cen to discreetly have Jiang Mingyao check Ling Zhao's body in the morgue for any sign of the ring.
Moments later, Cen Wenyu felt the transmission, turned slightly, and nodded. He leaned in to whisper a few words to Hang Zhongxuan, who, in turn, calmly opened his terminal and sent a message to Jiang Mingyao.
Han Ling retracted his divine sense, remaining impassive.
Meanwhile, the auction was drawing to a close. The host raised his voice and announced:
"Thank you all for your enthusiastic participation. This concludes tonight's charity auction. We now invite you to enjoy the evening banquet and visit the exhibit area at the back. Feel free to mingle and enjoy the refreshments..."
Applause erupted. Guests began to rise from their seats.
Grant stood as well, leaning in to whisper to Han Ling, "I'll go have the brooch brought to the car first. Be right back."
"Alright." Han Ling nodded and watched him go.
Just then, the elderly man seated on his left also stood and left without a word. His footsteps were light, nearly silent, but Han Ling, sensitive to spiritual fluctuations, felt the faint but immense energy hidden within him.
"He came to test me," Han Ling thought, his finger brushing lightly over the talisman hidden in his sleeve.
As he pondered this, a familiar presence approached.
"Why are you still sitting here?" Leander walked up, tone casual, though his eyes gleamed with amusement. "The auction's over. Time to socialize, isn't it?"
Han Ling turned to see Leander in a charcoal suit, sharp-shouldered and cold in aura, trailed by two assistants.
"I was just heading out," Han Ling said, standing. He scanned the room. "Security here is a bit loose. I tagged both Chen Qiyue and Ling Ning with tracking talismans. Just in case something happens."
Leander raised a brow. "You never waste talismans. Something's bothering you."
"More than bothering me. Something's off," Han Ling replied quietly, walking beside Leander into the crowd.
Leander led him to mingle with heirs and business moguls. Han Ling knew his stepmother had sent him here not merely to avoid embarrassing the Han family, but to establish connections and secure leverage.
---
Meanwhile...
Night had fallen. The city's neon glow cast reflections through the glittering windows of the banquet hall, where the charity auction thrived. Guests bustled on the red carpet; camera flashes flared. Celebrities, tycoons, and political figures mingled as a slideshow of the organizers' charitable achievements played on a giant screen. Waiters weaved through the crowd with trays of champagne. Though lighthearted on the surface, undercurrents stirred.
In one corner, Chen Qiyue, in a tailored dark gray suit, wore a polite smile, exchanging small talk. Standing beside him, Ling Ning, dressed in a deep green silk gown, looked coldly elegant, her figure slender and aloof. Together, they radiated star power.
But their attention wasn't on the auction.
Earlier, a cryptic message had been delivered directly into Ling Ning's consciousness through a hidden channel: a plain address, and a brief voice message—emotionless, low, and commanding:
"Come. It's time for your next task."
There was no need for explanation. They knew the voice. It belonged to the powerful Celestial Master who had helped them kill Ling Zhao.
Ling Ning lowered her gaze without betraying emotion. She set down her glass on a passing tray, and gave Chen Qiyue a barely perceptible nod. Without exchanging a word, they slipped out of the main hall, traversing a rear corridor into a seldom-used side wing.
After several turns, they stopped at the fifth door.
Ling Ning pushed it open. A gust of cold wind met them, cutting off the noise of the banquet.
The room inside was dimly lit, heavy with spiritual pressure, thick enough to freeze time. At the center stood a man in black—suit, gloves, boots. His face and age were impossible to discern, but his eyes were like bottomless wells, piercing straight through them.
"For the next phase, bring me three people."
"Who?" Chen Qiyue asked.
The man raised his hand. Golden light formed three names and matching portraits in his palm.
"Director Luo Yu. Heiress Shen Qianrou. Box office star He Chen."
"A master of cinematic narrative, a high-born woman with potent bloodline energy, and a young, thriving actor with overflowing fate. Their souls are pure, their destinies strong. Lure them here. Deliver them to me."
Ling Ning frowned. "In such a short time, how can we avoid raising suspicion?"
"Your identities are enough," the man cut her off coldly. "Use your connection to Ling Zhao. Leverage your existing ties. Bring them into the room. No force is needed. Once they enter, I'll handle the rest."
He flicked his sleeve. A pale golden magic circle appeared on the floor—a smaller version of the soul-draining array used on Ling Zhao, carefully suppressed to avoid detection.
Ling Ning paused, then nodded. "Understood."
---
They returned to the banquet with perfect smiles, their manners impeccable, as if they had never left. The auction was reaching its peak. Many guests were slightly tipsy. Chen Qiyue, champagne in hand, scanned the hall and quickly located the three targets.
Luo Yu—renowned director in his 40s, known for his subtle, poignant films. He was conversing with the organizers, looking mildly bored.
Shen Qianrou—socialite heiress, not involved in entertainment, but frequently in the news for her beauty and family status. She stood in a corner, looking disinterested.
He Chen—rising superstar, recent award winner, surrounded by fans and media, handling it all smoothly.
Ling Ning made the first move, approaching Luo Yu.
"Director Luo," she greeted gently, with a slight smile. "May I speak with you? It's about the adaptation rights my brother gave me for one of his scripts."
Luo Yu's brows lifted at the mention of Ling Zhao's name. He nodded, excused himself, and followed Ling Ning toward the back.
At the same time, Chen Qiyue approached Shen Qianrou and He Chen. "Qianrou, He Chen, Director Ling wants to see you. She needs your help with something. We're planning a joint production with Director Luo—possibly starring you both."
He Chen raised an eyebrow. "So sudden?"
"Funding just came through unexpectedly. Ling Ning thinks it's a golden opportunity. She also has several of Ling Zhao's scripts—you know how successful those are."
After a moment's thought, He Chen nodded. "Alright. I'll take a look."
Qianrou, bored and intrigued by the mention of acting, agreed as well.
The three followed him to the door.
---
The door creaked open.
The man in black was waiting.
Though the spiritual pressure was faint, all three felt a chill crawl down their spines.
"This place..." He Chen began, but his vision blurred.
The soul-draining array activated silently. Threads of dark mist coiled around their ankles, waists, and skulls like a web.
Luo Yu frowned. "What is this..."
"Don't worry. It's just a demo for the film's visual effects," Ling Ning said softly, her tone laced with frost.
Chen Qiyue stood behind them, smiling faintly as he quietly locked the door.
In the next moment, all three collapsed. Their souls quivered within the array, destiny energies drawn out.
The man in black spread his arms wide, as though basking in the feast of a forbidden ritual.
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