In fact, it wasn't how it looked on their faces—but every one of the Ten was surprised.
No one blinked.
No one shifted in their seats.
Their expressions remained stone-cold.
But behind that perfect stillness, a shared thought rippled like a silent pulse:
This wasn't just any disciple they were hearing about.
This was Velurya.
The same Velurya they had personally chosen.
During the Heir Selection Assembly, the majority of the Ten had voted for her.
Not because of family ties or politics.
Because they recognized her potential.
Her second talents—a rare and formalized phenomenon known within their sect as the Dual-Origin System.
Velurya's second talent was tied to Ice—an elemental affinity that shaped her mind as much as her abilities.
She wasn't loud or reckless.
Her composure was ironclad, chilling in its steadiness.
Her confidence was quiet but unshakeable—not foolish arrogance, but a cold, measured certainty.
She had never faltered in the trials.
Her strength at Rank 1 was legendary—unmatched by any other in their sect's history.
No one had controlled her realm like she did.
She didn't just win fights; she dismantled opponents mentally and physically before they even realized the battle had begun.
And beyond strength and skill, there was something else.
Velurya had a deep love for justice.
She was driven not by ambition alone, but by a fierce desire to see fairness upheld in a world often cruel and chaotic.
Her sense of right and wrong was uncompromising.
That made her all the more formidable.
And now…
She had been defeated.
The fact alone was enough to freeze the room.
How could the very disciple they had entrusted as an heir, the one who had never shown weakness, fall?
The Ten didn't speak this aloud.
They didn't need to.
Their collective silence spoke volumes.
This loss wasn't merely a setback.
It was a fracture in everything they thought they understood.
If Velurya—unrivaled in her rank, with unparalleled composure, strength, and sense of justice—could be broken,
Then what did that mean for the future?
Their surprise wasn't about her current power.
They were all far beyond her in cultivation.
But it was about the danger this loss signified.
Because a cultivator like Velurya, when pushed to her limits and broken for the first time,
Would not stay the same.
She would grow.
She would evolve.
And that growth would be something none of them could afford to ignore.
Among the Ten, one figure stood apart—not by voice, but by the weight of presence.
The old woman who had accompanied Velurya at the auction site was the most visibly affected.
She was Velurya's master.
Some of the other elders exchanged subtle, side-long glances—curious, suspicious.
A few even doubted her judgment, quietly wondering if her loyalty clouded her view.
But she didn't care.
She had known Velurya longer and better than anyone else here.
Not just the girl's personality, but her cultivation path, her limits, and above all—her full strength.
As the report ended, she turned toward the nervous young man standing at the entrance—the Internal Affairs Informant.
Her voice cut through the silence.
Cold. Controlled. No trace of anger or fear.
"Did she say who did it? Was it higher rank than her?"
The nervous informant's mind raced, panic clawing inside, but his voice stayed steady.
"Well, Miss Velurya knew that you, ma'am, would be the one asking those questions," he said carefully. "She stated that it was someone at the same rank as hers. The guy who surprised everyone at the auction."
He paused, swallowing hard, then continued.
"And she said one thing—'Don't ever pursue him.' She intends to handle this matter herself, without the help of the sect."
A quiet wave of relief rippled through the Ten.
No one said it aloud.
But it was there—clear and unspoken.
They hadn't chosen the wrong person.
After all, they preferred these young heirs to face setbacks, to learn independence.
A harsh lesson now meant a stronger, more self-reliant future.
Velurya's resolve to handle this alone only confirmed what they hoped:
that she would grow beyond this—and on her own terms.
None of the Ten spoke.
Not yet.
Then, the one seated at the first position finally opened his mouth, voice calm and even:
"What's the next?"
The informant didn't wait even a second.
"The person in charge of the territory is asking—'What should we do about the pavilion's move?'"
The old woman, who moments ago was the most shaken—and now, quietly the most relieved—spoke without hesitation.
"Let me handle that," she said. "I'll visit Velurya."
A short silence followed.
The informant bowed quickly, hands trembling slightly.
"That is the latest report I could give to all of you, seniors. Please… allow me to take my leave."
No one stopped him.
No voice opposed.
And in that rare mercy, he was dismissed.
Once the informant left and the doors sealed shut, all eyes turned toward the old woman.
Especially from the man seated at the first position.
He was the only one allowed to speak first—and the only one who could give others permission to follow.
His eyes rested on her, calm but firm.
"Who's the guy at the auction Velurya's talking about?"
The old woman—Velurya's master—answered without hesitation.
She gave her explanation.
It wasn't long.
Not like what she told Velurya.
There was no need—everyone in this room was stronger, smarter, and carried far more experience.
What might've seemed like terrifying manipulation to a junior like Velurya was, to them, just a standard move.
A bold one, yes.
But nothing special.
After she finished, the others nodded slightly.
As if acknowledging that while the boy's actions were daring, they weren't unfamiliar.
Then the old woman added, cool and composed:
"The only thing I didn't expect was his strength. I couldn't spy on him—if I did, my veil would've cracked."
Everyone nodded.
Then, the man at the first seat spoke again, his voice calm but decisive:
"Everyone may question her. But only one question per person."
The room stilled.
That wasn't normal.
Not for this chamber.
Not for him.
In all past meetings, only the first seat ever asked the questions—he guided the topic, he dissected the report.
No one questioned individuals.
Only the issue.
So when he gave permission—for the rest to question Elder Yushen directly—it broke a rule so unwritten, it had never even been challenged.
And yet, he said it.
Once.
Clear.
Final.
The Ten sat in silence, absorbing it.
Then, slowly, eyes turned back to Elder Yushen.
It had begun.