A small polished ivory gavel struck the velvet pedestal with a crisp, dry rap.
The sound echoed through the subterranean basalt vault of the Black-Crow Ghost Market, cutting through the low rumble of masked voices. Green corpse-oil lanterns hung from iron chains along the dripping cavern ceiling, casting sickly emerald shadows over sixty seated cultivators.
Every buyer wore a heavy gray cowl or a lacquered wooden spirit-mask to conceal their identity.
Yet their auras could not be completely hidden. The cavern thrummed with the dense, heavy pressure of dozens of Jade Meridian clan elders and private sect patriarchs.
Behind the raised obsidian counter stood Deacon Vane.
The former black-market chief wore fine midnight-blue silk, his fingernails trimmed to sharp points. A faint, knowing smirk played upon his pale lips as he surveyed the desperate men before him.
In the front row sat three familiar figures: Elder Song, Elder Wen, and Elder Qian.
Their silk hoods were pulled low, but their postures were stiff with nervous excitement. For three years, their cultivation had been stalled at the peak of the Jade Meridian Mid stage.
