Chapter 12: The Raw Stone Auction Conflict

Skylar Vance’s outstretched fingers were inches from a chunk of rough jade when a branded sports shoe deliberately stomped down on it. She paused, her gaze lifting slowly. Three young men stood over her, posed with the arrogant confidence of inherited wealth, their leader the one who had just hurled the insult.

All three boys were momentarily stunned by the face they finally saw. They hadn't expected the scruffy teenager kneeling in the dirt to possess such striking, almost ethereal beauty. In stark contrast, their own expensive, well-groomed appearances and sneering expressions suddenly looked gauche and inferior.

This crushing sense of inadequacy only fueled the leader’s—Sonny Sun—smoldering resentment. He scowled, his voice thick with cold disdain. “Hey, I’m talking to you. Can’t you see where you are? This is not a common market. If you’re an amateur, stop making a fool of yourself. Go back to whatever slum you crawled out of.”

Her patience had evaporated. Even Skylar’s naturally cold detachment had its limits when faced with outright, entitled provocation. She sprang to her feet. The speed of her movement was startling; her posture ramrod straight, she towered slightly over the already-intimidated Sonny, who stumbled backward, tripping over one of his henchmen.

“What the hell! What do you think you’re doing?” Sonny hissed, his face crimson with humiliation, resorting to furious profanity as his composure shattered.

Skylar’s expression was remote, devoid of the slightest flicker of emotion or apology. She delivered her response in a low, measured tone. “A decent dog doesn’t block the path.”

The single, succinct insult applied equally to all three boys.

“What did you say?” Sonny was speechless with fury, incapable of forming a coherent threat. The two henchmen immediately surged forward to defend their master. “How dare you speak to Mr. Sun like that! Are you tired of living?”

Mr. Sun. Skylar’s calm eyes tracked over the boy. He was draped in designer labels, yes, an outward display of privilege, but in her eyes, he was still just an obnoxious child playing dress-up.

Though Skylar remained outwardly impassive, the cool, assessing quality of her stare made Sonny feel utterly stripped bare, ridiculed from the inside out. He had come here already nursing a bad mood, hoping to vent his frustration on an easy target. Instead, this 'soft persimmon' had proven to be a spiked viper, igniting a dangerous, explosive rage inside him. He lost all interest in posturing.

“HIT HIM!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “Beat him senseless! I want him bleeding! I don’t care what happens, I’ll handle the consequences!”

The two henchmen rubbed their hands together, their faces lit up with the thrill of violence and the promise of their boss’s approval. “Don’t worry, Mr. Sun! We’ll make sure this punk’s own parents won’t recognize his face!”

You think you’re so pretty? We’ll make you weep! they thought, cocking their fists and launching them at Skylar’s exquisite face.

The confrontation had drawn a small crowd. The sudden, violent charge of the boys, who were clearly practiced in street fighting, elicited gasps from the onlookers. Several women in the crowd winced and covered their eyes.

But the expected sound of collision never came. The henchman’s swift, practiced punch froze abruptly. He stared in disbelief as his fist was caught, held effortlessly, between Skylar’s slender, almost delicate fingers. He couldn’t budge it.

“Let go!” The henchman, enraged by the public humiliation, snapped his leg up in a high, powerful kick. The impressive flexibility of the move forced both of them to break apart quickly.

That single, trained kick confirmed Skylar’s suspicion: the boy had received proper martial arts training.

A spark of genuine interest ignited in her clear eyes. Finally. She hadn't been able to fully test her capabilities after the recent encounters. “If you want a fight,” she murmured, a flicker of cold amusement in her voice, “I’ll give you a proper practice session.”

As she spoke, she calmly rolled up the sleeve of her white jacket, revealing a pale, beautifully sculpted forearm. Then, with a speed that defied the eye, she struck. The punch was faster and infinitely more precise than the boy’s initial strike.

The henchman, surprised by her sudden offensive, instinctually raised his arm to block. The moment his forearm connected with Skylar’s fist, a sickening, sharp CRACK! echoed in the small circle of onlookers. An agonizing, blinding pain immediately erupted, forcing a raw, ragged shriek from his lips. “AAAAGH!”

The high-pitched, desperate sound sliced through the market noise, making the surrounding crowd flinch in revulsion and dread.

To smash a boy’s arm with a single punch—what kind of terrifying, brutal power did that slight frame conceal? Skylar's casual savagery sent a wave of icy terror through the witnesses.

Skylar pulled back her fist, a faint crease forming between her brows. Something is wrong. When she had twisted Blade’s arm in the alley, she had attributed the result to a deliberate, practiced joint manipulation, coupled with his weakness. But this time, it had been a straight, forceful impact—and the result was the same gruesome breakage.

She stared at her smooth, pale palm. The chilling realization hit her. Her rebirth had not simply healed her; it had enhanced her. Her physical body, combined with the subtle energy of her Spatial Ability, possessed a density and impact force far beyond a normal human’s. She was essentially a living, breathing, beautifully crafted weapon—a fact she needed to carefully recalibrate.

“You little bastard! How dare you injure him! I’ll kill you!” The second henchman, his face burning with fury, charged in a blind rage to avenge his friend, abandoning all technique.

This time, Skylar kept her hands carefully tucked behind her back. She used a swift, powerful side-kick and then seized his shoulder in a practiced grip, executing a flawless, balletic over-the-shoulder throw. The henchman hit the hard ground with a jarring thud, instantly winding him.

The white jacket flared dramatically with her fluid movements, and the straight black denim emphasized the powerful, straight lines of her legs as she executed the clean, efficient sweep. The action was pure poetry in motion. Paired with her devastatingly handsome, serene face, the spectacle was intoxicating.

The martial prowess, combined with her androgynous beauty, was too much for the female spectators. They watched, breathless, their eyes glued to her every move, their faces flushed with a confusing mix of fear and admiration. They had come to watch a fight; they were witnessing a captivating, beautiful performance of violence.

Sonny Sun, seeing both his bodyguards incapacitated, finally understood the lethal gravity of the situation. He stumbled backward two steps, terror replacing his anger. He tried one last, desperate threat. “You just wait! Don’t you dare leave this place!”

Then, without waiting for a reply, he spun and ran, his hasty retreat a humiliating admission of defeat that the entire market witnessed.

Skylar calmly dropped her gaze, ignoring the two boys writhing in agony on the ground. She returned to the stall and resumed her careful selection of raw stones. With her cheat ability, she quickly located a few promising pieces.

The stall owner, his face a mask of frantic fear, leaned over the counter. “Oh, my ancestor! My dear, sweet ancestor! Do you know who you just hurt? That was the son of the general manager who runs this whole market! Please, before more people arrive, you must leave! My small stall cannot withstand this kind of trouble!”

“Relax. Just check me out,” Skylar instructed, effortlessly lifting the two or three selected stones onto the counter.

The owner was too terrified to argue about price, desperate only to expedite her departure. “Fine, fine! $100 USD each. $300 USD total. Pay up and go now!”

Skylar was surprised by the cheap price for the stones, which were the size of small melons. She quickly paid the cash, bagged the stones, and prepared to leave.

But just as she moved, a fresh wave of urgent footsteps and agitated voices flooded the area. At the head of the new crowd was a burly, middle-aged man. He spotted the two boys groaning on the ground, his face immediately darkening. He rushed forward. “Yu Ming! Yu Cheng!”

“He’s still here! Dad! That’s him! He’s the one who injured us!” Sonny Sun emerged from the crowd, his initial panic replaced by a triumphant, haughty confidence now that his formidable father was present.

Mr. Sun—Sun Ze—surveyed the chaotic scene. His brow furrowed tightly as his cold, calculating gaze landed on Skylar. “Who is this child? Where are your parents?” He kept his tone measured, unwilling to make a scene until he could assess her background.

Skylar saw the immediate classist calculation in his eyes. She remained coolly aloof. “I came alone.”

Alone? Mr. Sun’s eyes narrowed dangerously. With no immediate adult protection, the boy was easy prey. He instantly signaled his bodyguards. “Since you broke a man’s arm, you should leave one of your own hands as compensation.”

The words were spoken with casual, lethal indifference, as if he were discussing a minor business transaction. Five or six black-suited bodyguards immediately closed in, surrounding the isolated, slender figure of Skylar Vance.