The main lobby of the Firmament Auction House was a monument to the empire's futility. The floor forged in pale jade tiles reflected the light of hundreds of crystals suspended from the ceiling, while the elite of the Pale Gold Capital paraded their expensive silks and hereditary titles.
At the top of the curved white marble staircase, the mistress of the shadow empire watched the insects.
Mèng Lián no longer bore the tired skin or the features marked by centuries of stagnation. Purified and rebuilt by Zhì Yuǎn's Primordial Qi in the past, the former master now displayed the full physical and predatory prime of her mid-twenties. She wore a scandalously tight and low-cut crimson silk dress, the fabric embracing the monumental curve of her hips. Her hair, a vivid and burning red, cascaded in voluminous waves down her back, and her blood-red painted lips curved in a lazy, sinful smile.
Clan princes and patriarchs of lesser sects stopped in the middle of the lobby, their eyes fixed on the hostess's generous neckline, drooling over the unattainable beauty of Madame Feng.
She was not bothered by the stares. For a cultivator whose flesh had been forged under the extreme pressure of the Grinding, those exalted men radiated the same danger as dust settling on the floor.
The lobby's murmur, however, ceased abruptly.
It was not a silence of fear. It was the silence of the purest and most genuine reverence.
The great oak and silver doors swung open, and the afternoon sunlight bathed the two figures who crossed the threshold. The crowd of merchants and cultivators parted instinctively, lowering their heads with authentic respect.
Huáng Bìyù walked one step ahead. The Jasper Pearl bore the unshakeable dignity of the Huánglóng Imperial Clan. Tall, with an almond-golden complexion, she radiated the vitality of a fortress. The ochre and matte-gold silks she wore moved with a warrior's fluidity, and the unyielding aura of her lineage anchored her steps to the stones with an imposing weight.
Beside her, floating gracefully over the polished stone, came Qīng Yǔ. The Celestial Plume of the Qīngluán Clan was the antithesis of her sworn sister. Slender, with perfectly white and flawless skin, wrapped in layers of the lightest silks in shades of pale blue and silver, she seemed sculpted from light and empathy. Yǔ's sky-blue eyes moved over the guests with a compassionate warmth, and the freshness of her presence calmed the breathing of everyone around her.
Mèng Lián narrowed her eyes at the top of the staircase. The Soul Perception of the underworld's slave swept over both girls instantly. The foundation of each resonated with the stability of the 2nd Transcendent Stage — the Weaving of the Tides. To the stagnant world outside, they were two unrivaled geniuses; but to the abyss, they were merely lambs with very soft wool.
Bìyù stopped at the foot of the stairs, her liquid amber irises finding the scandalous redhead's figure.
"Madame Feng," the Earth Dragon's heiress greeted, her contralto voice sounding firm and velvety, without a single trace of arrogance. "We are grateful for the Firmament's hospitality."
"The light of this auction exists only to reflect the glory of the Two-Faced Crown's Pearls," Mèng Lián replied with an unctuous and perfectly rehearsed courtesy, bowing slightly, the crimson neckline offering a spectacle that Bìyù ignored with polished nobility. "The imperial box on the right has been prepared exclusively for the young mistresses."
The moment the two heroines of the nation disappeared down the gleaming corridor, Mèng Lián's lazy smile melted away. The black, invisible thread of the Law of Karma throbbed at the depths of her soul.
The Mistress of Shadows abandoned her crystal goblet on a servant's tray and turned her back to the hall, walking briskly toward the restricted and absolute depths of the auction house.
The obsidian walls of the exclusive corridor muffled every sound of the utopia. Mèng Lián stopped before a heavy ebony door that slid open silently before she even touched it.
The interior of the underworld's Supreme Box was plunged in dim light, illuminated only by the privileged view through the one-way illusion glass that looked out over the stage and the lower boxes.
Zhì Yuǎn reclined in the wide velvet armchair at the center of the room. The unfathomable coldness of his eyes swept over the market below, his charcoal-gray robe swallowing the shadows around him.
The four goddesses who anchored his existence occupied the space with the majesty of those who no longer touched the dust of the world. The air in the cabin was saturated with the absurd density of their bodies at the apex of the Transcendent Stage; their cores throbbed at the absolute limit of mortality, waiting in blind devotion for the husband to finally tear through the ceiling of that plane and forge the impossible path that would shelter their souls.
Bái Wǎn was kneeling on the soft rug at the foot of the armchair, the pearlescent silk of her dress spread around her. The young woman's small pale hands massaged Zhì Yuǎn's calves with a gentle, oceanic devotion, her soft face overflowing with a serene and absolute adoration for the contact. Yù Méi sprawled loosely in the air a hand's breadth from the wall, making casual use of the Lotus of the Void. The slit of her dark-gold silk dress opened dangerously against her thick thigh, the sulky pout on her full lips betraying her chronic boredom.
Near the center table, Mò Yán maintained the polished, unshakeable posture of a glacial authority. The diplomat showed no weakness. Her scarlet irises gleaming with efficiency, the young woman served the tea. Her Hanfu of the purest white corset and black skirt strained against the monumental fullness of her breasts, and the feverish flush on her pale neck pulsed solely and exclusively from the presence of the man in the armchair.
And crowning the altar, Yù Qíng floated in her invisible seiza, physically fused to her husband. The priestess's pale legs draped over Zhì Yuǎn's shoulders, and she leaned her torso forward, resting the soft, full weight of her breasts directly on top of his head. Yù Qíng's cold, possessive hands caressed the man's face and hair, rubbing against him with the lethal laziness of someone using the god as the most luxurious piece of furniture in the universe.
The auction's untouchable queen did not hesitate for a single second upon crossing the door.
The pride Mèng Lián displayed for the princes in the hall evaporated. The mature woman dropped to her knees on the thick rug, the crimson silk dragging on the floor. Weeping tears of pure and maddening idolatry, Mèng Lián crawled to Zhì Yuǎn's dark leather boots, pressing her forehead against the invisible dust beneath him.
"My Lord... your hound caught the scent of your arrival," the scandalous redhead sobbed, her voice thick with a pathetic submission, intoxicated by the god's presence. "Everything that breathes beneath this roof, the foundations of these walls, my fortune and my life, beg to be swallowed by your Will."
Zhì Yuǎn did not lower his face toward the weeping slave. The absolute darkness of his eyes remained fixed on the lit stage through the glass.
"The dust has been well swept, Lián," his deep voice reverberated in the dim light, a mild tone but laden with an authority that made the woman's forged soul tremble with euphoria. "Your usefulness is acknowledged. Get off my floor."
Yù Qíng rubbed her pale cheek affectionately against Zhì Yuǎn's black hair. The primogenita's abyssal eyes were not on the stage or on the prostrated servant. Through the illusion glass, Yù Qíng's vision dissected the imperial box on the opposite side.
There, Huáng Bìyù and Qīng Yǔ conversed peacefully, oblivious to the predatory scrutiny that was conceptually undressing them.
"A foundation at the Weaving of the Tides..." Yù Qíng murmured, her voice dropping to a hoarse, velvety whisper dripping with an intoxicating sadism. The goddess's cold fingers slid along Zhì Yuǎn's jaw. "The heroic legends of this empire are nothing but girls. Their Sea of Qi is still fluid. The clay is still warm and wet, my love."
Yù Méi stopped floating, landing her heels on the stone with a dull thud, her almond-shaped irises blazing in living gold as she peered through the glass.
"A little pressure from my hand and all that virtue cracks into three pieces," the warrior muttered, licking her own full lips.
Mò Yán set the steaming cup on the table beside the armchair, her red eyes sweeping the two girls in the lower box with a rigorous scrutiny. The empire's fairies had no idea of the gravitational force that was about to crash down on their heads.
"The pressure will not come from your flesh, little flower," Yù Qíng purred from above, the lethal smile curving her crimson lips. "Their soil is so immaculate. They believe that justice and light protect the world. I would love to see what color that light turns when our heaven's weight crushes all that modesty..."
Yù Qíng's lethal poetry died suddenly in the air.
The smile evaporated. Yù Qíng lurched sharply forward, both pale hands seizing Zhì Yuǎn's jaw, her knuckles turning white beneath the force of her grip. She drove her black, dilated eyes directly into the abyss of her husband's gaze. The priestess's full chest rose and fell violently beneath the silk, and the woman's hot, breathless breath fused with his.
"I want both of them for our altar, Zhì Yuǎn," Yù Qíng's demand tore through the dim light, raw and bare. "I want to watch the empire discover that the goddesses they worship are whimpering in our sheets, swallowing your essence."
The dense heat ignited in Zhì Yuǎn's Dantian. The Hunger vibrated, intoxicated by the chaotic breathing of his first wife. If she demanded that the nation's goddesses be corrupted onto their altar, the utopia would burn.
"As you wish, my goddess," the man's deep voice echoed, mild and irrefutable, sealing the empire's downfall. A quiet, unhurried smile curved his lips, his irises darkening in lethal agreement beneath the cold grip of his priestess.