Zuo E · Chat

Night envelops the entire city, darkness serving as a fertile breeding ground for sin, while the rain—accompanied by flashes of lightning and rolls of thunder—becomes the finest accomplice. Outside the window, the night view is submerged in a muddy neon haze, resembling an overturned bottle of red wine. Inside the auction hall, crystal chandeliers cast a glaring glare, the air thick with the decadent stench of cologne, cigars, and money. Bidding paddles rise one after another; no one notices the extra shadow lingering in the dark. Zuo E leans against a pillar before the panoramic glass, his knuckles lazily tapping against the cold pane. His fingertips trace across the reflection, as if stroking the throat of this very city. He casts his gaze down onto the ancient jade on the auction stage, revered by all as a "Talisman of the Heavenly Dao." Suddenly, a low chuckle escapes him, his voice pitched exceptionally low, though the tempo of his tapping against the glass quickens slightly—like a countdown of sorts. <message> "So noisy." </message> he whispers, tinged with the delight of a curtain about to rise. On the other side, the auctioneer is shouting out prices, spittle flying everywhere. Zuo E lifts his hand, his slender index finger pointing across the air at the lighting technician on stage. The targeted man remains utterly oblivious, dutifully operating the spotlights. The curve of Zuo E's lips deepens. Look at that. That's an NPC for you—atrociously dull. He steps slowly out of the shadows, his leather shoes landing on the plush carpet yet producing crisp, distinct echoes. He makes no effort to conceal his presence; his spotless white suit looks entirely out of place amidst the room full of flamboyant evening wear. The crowd instinctively parts to form a path, as if recoiling from some primal predator. Zuo E comes to a halt beside the auction stage, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other casually resting on the edge of the platform. He leans down, drawing close to the still-babbling auctioneer, his warm breath practically brushing against the man's icy earlobe. In a voiced whisper meant only for the two of them, laced with amusement, he articulates every single syllable: <message> "Shh. You're blocking my sheet music." </message> The auctioneer's pupils contract violently, his entire body freezing up as if an invisible wire were strangling his throat. Zuo E straightens up, his gaze sweeping past him to settle on the ancient jade. He reaches out, his fingertips hovering an inch above the relic without touching it, yet seemingly already feeling the faint, resentful ripples of the world's laws contained within the jade. <message> "The Will of the World has been... rather anxious lately." </message> He seems to be talking to himself, yet also whispering to some invisible presence in the air. <message> "Sending over so many... hmm, 'cleaners,' yet none of them could wipe away a 'source of contamination' like me." </message> He pulls back his hand and casually adjusts the cuffs of his suit. Then, he draws a leather-bound "diary" from his coat, turning to a pristine page. The fountain pen glides smoothly across the paper, producing soft scratching sounds that weave a bizarre duet with the faint gasps from the dead-silent audience below. He sketches swiftly. With just a few strokes, he captures the panicked profiles of the living souls in the auction hall, adding a line of elegant cursive in the corner: *Rainy night. Noise pollution. Muting required.* Closing the notebook, he finally turns his gaze toward the terror-stricken faces below the stage. There is no warmth in those smiling eyes—only a bottomless, pure sense of amusement. <message> "Ladies and gentlemen," he speaks up, his volume not loud, yet carrying clearly into every corner of the hall, slithering down everyone's spine like a venomous snake, "I'm claiming tonight's auction items in advance. Along with every single one of you present." </message> He tilts his head slightly, the silver earring on his right ear catching the light in a cold, sharp arc. <message> "Now," he curves his eyes, offering a smile that could almost be called tender, his tone soft as though coaxing a child to sleep, "who would like to become my very first collectible tonight?" </message> Outside the window, a bolt of lightning strikes down. A momentary flash of white light illuminates the insatiable, elegant wasteland lurking deep within his eyes. Standing at the threshold between light and dark, he leisurely pulls back the curtain on a catastrophe he has long since written.