He had no intention of letting them all be paraded at once.
There was no need to show his entire hand. Piece by piece, that was enough.
This way, the situation could still be steered, controlled, and if anyone in the hall thought to test him, the puppets would be ready to offer a different sort of demonstration.
The female auctioneer lifted her hand, fingers gloved in silk.
She smiled, one practiced to look composed yet touched with just the right amount of warmth.
Still, beneath the polish, her voice betrayed a spark of excitement.
It was the kind of tone meant not just to present an item but to sharpen the air, to stir the anticipation that already sat in the grand hall.
At her gesture, two butlers stepped onto the stage.
Their postures were stiff, their steps careful, as though every motion was rehearsed.
The black velvet-draped box at the center of the platform drew every eye.
Neither butler looked at the audience.
One moved to the left side of the covering, the other mirrored him on the right.
Both took their positions, their hands steady on the heavy cloth.
A pause lingered.
Not long, but enough to gather everyone's eyes.
It was the kind of pause that stretched silence into something louder than sound, tugging every gaze tighter onto the stage.
Then, in a motion practiced down to the inch, they pulled.
The velvet covering slipped free in one clean motion, falling back with the weight of the fabric.
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the seats.
What rested inside the box was not gold, nor jewel, nor some spirit-forged weapon.
What they saw instead was a figure.
Human-shaped, yet not human. A puppet.
A battle puppet!
Its surface gleamed faintly under the lights, carved lines running like veins across limbs.
The face was pale, eyes shut as if in slumber.
But there was no mistaking it for a mere statue.
From within its chest, faint as the quiet beat of a hidden drum, came the thrum of spiritual energy.
That pulse alone was enough to send a chill crawling through the room.
Everyone felt it, the sleeping volcano that resides inside it.
Then, like fireworks...
Someone from the lower rows broke first.
"It's… it's a Foundation Building puppet!" the man shouted, his voice breaking on the words.
Echoing off in every directions.
The effect was immediate.
The words fell like a stone into still water, and the stillness shattered. Murmurs surged into roars.
"A puppet in the Foundation realm?!"
"Even if it's only early stage, that's… gods above, that's already more than enough for most immortal families to rise into a third rate power"
"Who in their right mind would put something like this up for auction?"
"Forget spirit stones, people will kill for this!"
"No one would be stupid enough to do that here."
The noise rolled upward through the tiers of seats, a wave of disbelief.
The auctioneer didn't rush to quiet them.
Like a chef, she stirred the cooking pot gently, letting the fire burned a bit longer.
She lifted her palm, but the gesture was more symbolic than forceful.
She let the tide of voices run its course, her eyes scanning over the crowd.
Not the common seats, not the shouting faces below, but the curtained balconies above.
The true customers for this item.
The private rooms.
That was where the true storm brewed, where silence held weight heavier than all the noise below.
In one of those chambers, Nie Baoyan leaned forward in her chest.
The young-looking woman, sect leader of the Violet Needle Sect, looked down from the window.
Her thoughts deep.
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied the puppet on the stage, and her slender finger tapped a soft rhythm against her knee.
"S-sect master… that's…" one of the elders beside Baoyan finally found his voice.
"A foundation puppet," another elder spoke before the first could finish.
His gaze clung to the object at the center of the room, unable to look away. "If our sect secures that… our disciples won't just hold the western valleys. We could push straight into the southern territories, perhaps claim them entirely."
Baoyan raised a single hand. The murmur of voices ceased instantly.
Her eyes stayed on the puppet, measuring the benefits weight against every possible outcome.
Then, finally deciding...
"No matter the cost," she said, her voice carrying an unspoken heaviness, "this cannot fall into another force's hands. You all understand that."
"the second rate behemoth won't pay attention to this single puppet, but the third rate forces like us, this is a huge deal"
Elsewhere, in another private room where only a single lantern burned, the Dustpetal Cult people gathered in silence.
At the head sat a tall figure draped in a heavy dark cloak, his features completely hidden behind a grotesque mask half exposed under his hood.
The mask looked as though it had been carved to disturb, the lines jagged, its hollow eyes following every shadow.
His elders stood slightly behind him, arrayed like statues, each dressed the same.
Their gazes were fixed forward, unblinking, not much different from a group of walking corpses.
And the stench...
The butler that stood guard outside of their room pulled his collar from time to time, sweating, fearing for his life.
Then...
No one spoke at first.
The room was so quiet that the faint creak of the lantern hook sounded too loud.
Then, from under the mask, the man's eyes seemed to glint, catching the light as they narrowed.
His voice broke the stillness.
"…A puppet that bleeds spiritual energy like a monk," he said slowly, as if tasting the words.
Compared to the other monks, he saw more in this puppet's creation.
His eyes glowed strangely inside the mask's sockets.
Analyzing...
One of the elders inclined his head, his tone respectful. "Sect Master, should we?"
"Even if we spend thousands of lives to fuel it, the harvest we reap would repay the cost a hundred times over."
Alas, their twisted minds.
Just to save the cost of using spiritual stones to use the puppet, they had already began to think of using human sacrifices to replace it.
But then...
The masked man didn't answer right away.
His shoulders moved faintly, an almost imperceptible tremor, but enough to make the closest elder glance at him from the corner of his eye.
It might have been a laugh.
Around him, the other elders remained silent.
Not far away, in the Windspike Caravan's assigned room, the reaction was different.
Two old men sat opposite one another, neither moving, the air between them still as stone.
The fat one, cheeks quivering, straightened his back until his spine gave a faint crack, his wide eyes fixed on the same sight as the others.
His fingers dug into the edge of the table before him, leaving shallow indentations in the wood.
His companion was thin, long white hair spilling down his back like a waterfall of pale silk.
His face old, his hand pressed against the armrest of his chair.
The faint strain in his fingers showed the effort it took to maintain composure.
"This is a big issue... "
"What a headache... It seems the region won't be as peaceful as it was from now on."