'So this is the man who stains the name of Spirit Hall…' Wu Meng thought coldly.
' Disgusting'
Her calm face betrayed nothing, but deep within, a silent storm began to rise.
Si Long, still young and hot-blooded, could not restrain himself. Watching Bishop Meyers once again flaunt the Spirit Hall's banner to pressure the Blacksmith Association stirred fire in his chest.
'Meyers, how dare you try to snatch away Master's hard work with such ugly means!'
His fists clenched so tight that his knuckles turned white, and before he realized it, his voice thundered across the hall:
"Bishop Meyers! This is not Spirit Hall! This is the Blacksmith Association! Every item here was forged with blood, sweat, and dedication of the smiths. They are not for you to tarnish with your shameless bullying!"
The bold retort echoed in the wide auction hall, startling several guests. Heads turned, but when the crowd saw who was speaking, their expressions dimmed.
Bishop Meyers froze for a brief second, then slowly turned his gaze toward the source of the voice. His lips curled into a mocking smile as his eyes fell on the defiant youth.
"Ha! Ha! Ha!" His laugh boomed, but it was filled with venom. "And who do we have here? The little twerp Lou Gao picked up as a disciple? Si Long, isn't it?"
His laughter stopped abruptly. The playful glint in his eyes vanished, replaced with a razor-sharp coldness. He leaned forward, his robes shifting with the motion like a looming shadow.
"I wonder… what would your master offer me as compensation if I punished his precious disciple for daring to insult Spirit Hall?"
The words carried weight, every syllable laced with menace. The atmosphere turned suffocating, like an invisible hand pressing against everyone's chest.
Si Long's face flushed crimson, not from shame, but from suppressed fury. Yet his tongue refused to move. His body trembled slightly—partly from anger, partly from the immense pressure of standing up against a man like Meyers.
His gaze swept across the hall, desperately hoping for some support. But what he saw chilled him further.
The guests, nobles, merchants, smiths—were all looking down, pretending to admire the floor or whispering among themselves. Not a single one dared to meet his eyes. Their silence was deafening, their cowardice more cutting than Meyers's words.
Si Long understood. Bishop Meyers was not only a bishop of Spirit Hall; he was the infamous tyrant of Gengxin City. Everyone knew his nature—once offended, he would never forget. He had ruined families, suppressed craftsmen, and silenced them the guise of Spirit Hall's authority.
None of these people wanted Meyers knocking at their door. So they bowed their heads, pretending the conflict before them didn't exist.
The sense of isolation made Si Long's heart ache. He stood alone against a man whose shadow loomed large over the entire city.But even so, the fire in his chest refused to be extinguished.
However, not everyone bowed their head in silence.
A clear, melodious voice rang across the auction hall, slicing through the suffocating air like a blade of ice:
"Bishop Meyers, don't you think your behavior itself is what tarnishes the reputation of Spirit Hall?"
The room fell into shocked silence. To openly challenge Meyers was akin to courting disaster. Yet when eyes shifted toward the source, they widened in awe.
Beside Si Long stood Wu Meng—her figure elegant, her black hair cascading like silk, her expression calm yet commanding. There was no arrogance in her bearing, only the quiet strength of someone unafraid.
Meyers' snort echoed through the room, dismissive at first. But when his sharp little eyes truly landed on Wu Meng, his expression shifted. His gaze lingered, crawling over her with naked greed. She was not like the women he had toyed with in this city, Wu Meng was of a different caliber altogether, her beauty sharp enough to wound his pride and his desires alike.
A wicked grin spread across his lips. He leaned closer to the aide at his side, whispering a few crude words that drew an eager nod.
Wu Meng, standing silently, caught that expression in his eyes. Her heart turned colder than steel. A predator's hunger, disgusting and familiar. She had seen it in men like Meyers before.
The aide, emboldened by his master's gaze, strutted toward Si Long and Wu Meng's seats. His nose lifted slightly as if the entire hall was beneath him. When his eyes swept over the other guests, there was only disdain. But the moment he faced Wu Meng, his lips curled into an oily smile.
"Miss," he bowed mockingly, ignoring Si Long completely. "Bishop Meyers invites you to join him for a drink."
The hall stirred. Everyone knew what Meyers' "invites" meant.
Before Wu Meng could respond, Si Long slammed his hand on the table, standing so quickly his chair nearly toppled. His young voice quivered with fury.
"Sister Wu Meng is my guest! You have no right to harass her!"
The aide turned his head slowly, glaring at Si Long as though staring at an insolent insect. His lips curled into a sneer, ready to lash out with venom—
But in the next heartbeat, Wu Meng's aura flared.
The Soul King's pressure erupted, crashing over the aide like a tidal wave. The once-smirking man paled instantly, his knees wobbling as cold sweat trickled down his neck. He stumbled backward, his disdainful mask shattering into fear.
The hall collectively drew breath. A Soul King—so young?
Humiliated, the aide stumbled back to Meyers and whispered hurriedly into his ear.
Meyers' greedy gaze lingered on Wu Meng for one last, burning moment. Then, with a cold snort that carried threat, he stood and swept out of the hall with his retinue.
The oppressive atmosphere lifted, and the auction slowly resumed, though the murmur of whispers betrayed the crowd's unease.
Yet while most eyes followed Meyers' dramatic exit, not a soul noticed the faintest flick of the aide's wrist. A slip of paper, no bigger than a coin, slid across the polished table near Wu Meng's seat.
Even Si Long, still glaring at the retreating bishop, failed to notice.
Wu Meng, however, had been watching closely. Her fingers moved with subtle grace, picking up the slip and palming it without anyone realizing.
A single glance at the neat, hurried script made her eyes sharpen.
"Demon Bear Douluo has arrived here…"