Chapter Nineteen: How Many Floors Can a Bag of Rice Be Carried Up

The auction hall of the Celestial Treasure Pavilion was divided into two levels: one above ground, one below. During the day, events were held upstairs; at night, they moved beneath, adding an air of mystery to the proceedings.

Bai Yujing descended the red-carpeted stairs, pushed open the heavy wooden door, and the view before him opened wide. Walls glittered with gold and jade under dazzling lights, and the spacious auction hall was arranged in tiered rows, reminiscent of stadium stands. At the far end, a great crimson curtain hung down, lending solemnity to the imminent auction.

Men and women, dressed in splendid attire, found their seats, though many spots remained vacant. Bai Yujing chose a seat in the last row. When the curtain began to draw back and all participants had arrived, he started his search.

Everyone present wore masks to conceal their identities, regardless of gender. Bai Yujing, however, didn't need to inspect each one. To qualify for the position of chief constable at the Six Gates, one must be at least a seventh-grade spirit master. By that measure, only seven people in the hall met the standard.

With remarkable speed, Bai Yujing removed the masks of those who fit the criteria, then replaced them before anyone noticed. He found a person in the west section of the third row, with a blue birthmark beneath an eye, and returned to his seat. None of those whose masks he had removed sensed a thing—his movements surpassed their perception, as if he operated in a world where time stood still.

He did not hurry to deal with Yang Long. Now that he was here, he wanted to see what treasures were being auctioned tonight.

The curtain finally opened fully, and a flood of lights converged on the stage, plunging the rest of the hall into darkness.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” called a woman with a peacock mask, dressed with striking sensuality, swaying her hips as she stepped onto the stage. “Welcome to the Celestial Treasure Pavilion auction. I am your host for the evening, Zhu Churou.”

She spoke into the microphone: “Now, let us welcome our first item for auction: the severed finger of the renowned Western demon, the Vampire Prince Dracula. It contains potent demon power, ideal for making ink for sacred scripts and tonic preparations. The starting price is three hundred thousand yuan.”

...

With each round, the auction grew ever more intense. Rare and precious items changed hands, including materials strictly forbidden by the summer nation—some for high-level scripts that violated humanity’s laws. Bai Yujing watched with relish; such wonders were seldom seen, and he marveled at them.

“Next,” Zhu Churou tapped the gavel, her husky voice brimming with excitement, “is tonight’s grand finale!”

She deliberately paused, heightening anticipation. “Among all half-demons, this is the most rare and precious: the dragon-form species! Celestial Treasure Pavilion sacrificed two seventh-grade spirit masters to capture her. Take her home, train her well—she’ll be a formidable guardian for your household!”

As she finished, staff wheeled out a massive iron cage from the left. The guests saw a girl inside, about one meter sixty-five tall. Her wrists and ankles were bound by chains etched with binding scripts, and her face was hidden beneath a curtain of vivid red hair. Even through her scant clothing, her striking curves were evident.

This sight drew approving nods from many guests, though some voiced discontent: “Hey, her hair covers her face—is she ugly?”

“Absolutely not,” Zhu Churou retorted, signaling the staff to reveal the girl’s features. The staff, wary of reaching in directly, took up a bamboo pole and attempted to lift her hair.

Just then, he heard the girl whisper softly, “From this moment, let the world feel pain.”

“Huh?”

He tilted his head, failing to grasp her meaning.

Bang! The chains shattered with thunderous force, disintegrating the binding scripts in an instant. A translucent phantom burst forth from her back, swelling rapidly; the iron cage crumpled as if made of paper. The bars broke apart, transforming into javelins that pierced the staff’s chest, carrying him into the air and pinning him to the back of a seat in the front row.

Blood streamed down the chair, dripping onto the floor with a steady patter.

The phantom continued to expand, tearing the air as it passed, unleashing an ear-splitting shriek. The stage lights exploded under its assault, scattering shards everywhere.

Zhu Churou stood beside the podium, unable to react before the phantom swept over her.

Crunch!

Her body was struck as if by an invisible locomotive, bones dislocating with a sickening crack. Each bone pierced flesh, blood fountaining from her mouth and nose. She was tossed aside like a rag doll, landing with a heavy thud, never to move again.

The auction hall’s dome groaned under the phantom’s impact, then collapsed with a resounding crash. Huge stones and steel beams rained from the ceiling onto the crowd below.

Chaos erupted. Guests fled frantically, screams echoing throughout the hall.

Someone shouted, “Where are the Pavilion’s guards? Send help!”

“Demon, you shall not run wild!” A thunderous voice rang out, and a powerful figure leapt from the last row, streaking across the darkness like a meteor. He swung his fists, pulverizing falling stones and beams into dust, which he then hurled toward the translucent phantom on stage.

“It’s Wang Meng!” a seasoned guest exclaimed. “Celestial Treasure Pavilion’s enforcer, an eighth-grade spirit master!”

The crowd breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Wang Meng, trained at the famed Hundred Beasts Sect in Shanghai, practiced Eagle Claw techniques—his ten fingers could pierce anything.

With him taking action, subduing a mere half-demon should be effortless. Wang Meng charged at the phantom, his fingers hooking, and he lunged for a strike.

Boom! The entire auction hall trembled from the impact. Wang Meng let out a scream of agony—his supposedly indestructible fingers were torn asunder, nails flying and blood pouring.

The phantom’s right hand tapped lightly.

Boom!

Blood mist erupted. Wang Meng’s body was instantly ripped apart, raining down in a shower of gore.

The guests’ fleeting hope vanished, replaced by deeper terror.

The phantom raised its left hand and struck toward the audience.

“Run! Run!” the guests shrieked in panic, desperately trying to escape.

But the blow descended too quickly.

Boom!

Seats and people exploded together, reduced to bloody dust. The shockwave hurled others to the floor, cries of pain filling the air.

Before such overwhelming strength, spirit masters and ordinary folk alike were equally fragile.

Yang Long, chief constable of Six Gates, forgot all dignity and bolted for his life. With even an eighth-grade spirit master dead, what hope did a seventh-grade have?

“Yang Long.”

He heard someone call his name and instinctively turned.

Boom!

A fist filled his vision, and his head burst like a watermelon.

His companions failed to notice, intent only on fleeing.

Bai Yujing shook blood from his hand, then turned toward the stage, where the half-demon girl stood shrouded in the phantom’s aura.

Never before had he encountered such hatred in a spiritual pressure—it threatened to destroy the very world.

“No help for it,” Bai Yujing decided. It was time for him to act.