"Several."
The cloaked figure slid a hand into his sleeve and smoothly pulled out a jade slip, holding it out toward her with an unhurried motion.
Ilya accepted it wordlessly.
With practiced ease, she placed the cool jade against her forehead.
A faint ripple of spiritual light shimmered from the contact point, and in the next breath, a wave of information surged into her mind.
This was a standard method in the cultivation world, direct, efficient, and reliable.
Jade slips, created to store spiritual contents, were commonly used by cultivators to pass along details without needing speech or scrolls.
The moment the forehead touched the jade, the message transferred through.
The information flowed in smoothly. When it finished, she slowly lowered her hand.
Her eyes shut for a moment as she exhaled, steady and calm, before reopening with a faint glint behind them.
She turned her gaze toward one of the guards nearby and passed the slip back.
"I didn't expect our auction to draw in so many third-rate forces tonight," she said with a faint smile, the corners of her mouth lifting, though her brows tugged ever so slightly, betraying a sliver of concern beneath her composed surface.
"Wind Spike Caravan..."
"Violet Needle Sect…"
Her tone dropped a little on the last name.
"…And even DustPetal Cult. That group has one of the worst reputation in this region, and they still dared to come?"
She murmured each name as if tasting something bitter, each syllable weighed with its own nuance.
The rest of the attendees, though not mentioned, weren't of particular note, mostly cultivation families backed by a single early-stage Foundation Establishment Ancestor, or families with a lone half-step perfected Qi Refining cultivator.
They came tonight chasing a thin hope, snatching up one or two Foundation Realm puppets to stabilize their footing.
Understandable, though.
Puppets at that level weren't just rare, they were near impossible to find on the open market.
Not because they didn't exist, but because spiritual puppeteers simply didn't make them in high volume.
Or more precisely, they couldn't.
Creating high-level puppets wasn't a task most spiritual artificers dared to undertake frequently.
First, the issue of scale.
No one else had Liam's odd ability to mass-produce them with frightening efficiency.
Second, the reluctance.
Most spiritual puppeteers preferred to keep their creations under tight control.
Selling such assets to outsiders meant giving away a piece of their own strength, and they weren't eager to see their work wielded by potential enemies.
Then came the core limitation: spiritual control.
A puppeteer's divine mind determined how many constructs they could manage at once.
The more sophisticated the puppet, the greater the strain. It acted like an invisible leash, an absolute boundary that even powerful cultivators rarely crossed.
But Liam… didn't have that problem.
Somehow, the existence of the dungeon nested within his divine mind bypassed that barrier entirely.
It allowed him to imprint dozens of puppets simultaneously, without showing any sign of exhaustion.
An unheard-of feat.
And the kind that naturally attracted unwanted attention.
To sell a puppet, a spiritual puppeteer had to place a control imprint onto its spiritual core, a necessary act to make the construct truly functional.
Without that imprint, the puppet was lifeless, no better than a sculpture.
It could hold programmed instructions, yes, but without a spark of directive essence, it wouldn't move or react.
But placing that imprint wasn't easy.
Each one required a huge drain of mental energy, enough that most spiritual puppeteers needed time, sometimes weeks, to recover before branding another.
Yet again, Liam had quietly sidestepped that rule too.
No drain, no long pause, no restrictions.
And for now, no one seemed to be interested in knowing further.
Liam had come to a quiet but firm conclusion, he was no longer bound by the same limits as other spiritual puppeteers.
That fact alone explained why he'd been steadily increasing the number of puppets under his control.
Not recklessly, but for a theory. Just to test how far he could push it.
So far, the results were baffling.
He felt no drain, no strain, no dull ache in the mind that came from overextending spiritual threads.
No backlash at all.
The dungeon within his divine mind wasn't just unusual, it was the sole reason the usual limitations didn't apply to him anymore.
Why it worked this way, he still didn't know.
But he welcomed it.
Because tonight's auction wouldn't be peaceful. It was already shaping up to be a bloodless battlefield.
"How many Foundation Establishment cultivators among them?" Ilya asked, her voice carrying into the space as her heels clicked softly against the floor.
She shifted her posture slightly, adjusting her sleeve as she made her way to the internal corridor.
This wasn't an entrance for guests. It was the staff path, narrower.
She passed a pair of workers hauling sealed crates toward the stairway that led down beneath the building.
With a step forward, she entered a stretch of dimness briefly before the glow of spiritual lanterns bathed her in a warm, flickering light.
Shadows played along the earth-carved walls.
"There are several from those three forces you mentioned," came the calm voice beside her. "The rest seem to be local families from the nearby areas and some independent cultivators."
"I see." Her eyes narrowed just a little, absorbing that information as her steps paused.
It lasted no more than a second before she resumed walking. "Keep a close eye on them. Just in case."
The masked figure nodded, "With their strength, no issues will occur under my watch," and vanished into the dim corridor without another word
Alone now, Ilya continued along the underground path.
These passageways were dug deep into the earth behind the main venue, carved with care and reinforced with spiritual formations.
Mostly first grade spiritual formations.
Most of the side rooms led to the private chambers reserved for VIPs.
And at the center, her own waiting room.
As she walked, she passed several clerks in their formal outfits, each one guiding wealthy guests carefully.
Some paused to bow politely, offering respectful nods.
Her quiet guards of three middle-stage Foundation Building cultivators lent her presence an undeniable weight.
And the rumors had already spread: the Pavilion's manager wasn't someone to underestimate.
The chance to align with her, no matter how subtly, was not something most people would ignore.
But not everyone was so smart.
As she passed through one of the branching corridors, her path crossed with another group making their way to one of the nearby VIP rooms.
At a glance, they looked like the usual mid-tier cultivators, nothing immediately threatening.
But the leading figure stepped forward before the clerk could announce her, cutting past with a sharp tilt of her chin.
A woman, likely her age, maybe a little younger.
Shorter, more petite.
But she walked with the smug air of someone used to attention.
Deep violet eyes stared, not at her face, but at her chest.
Then, away again.
Clearly unimpressed.
"So you're the so-called leader of this Pavilion, huh?" the woman said, placing both hands on her hips as she sized Ilya up with a bold stare.
Her tone carried a shallow drawl, soaked in ridicule. "I see how it is. Figures you'd end up in a role like this. You probably paid your way in with more than just money."
The jab was crude but not unexpected.
These types always existed, threatened by competence they couldn't understand.
Ilya blinked once, then looked at her properly.
As the details settled in, the curled lip, the short stature, the forced confidence, a different emotion surfaced.
Not anger.
Not irritation.
Just… pity.
The woman caught the look and bristled instantly. "Hey! What's with that expression?!"
But Ilya didn't say anything to it.
Her silence was an answer of its own.