Event [3].

Fang Yuan paused, the soft rustle of silk and the murmur of conversation fading into a taut silence.

His gaze, cool and piercing, settled on Elder Fang Guo.

Then he laughed.

A deep, unhurried sound, smooth and resonant, echoing lightly across the courtyard like ripples on still water.

"Elder Guo," Fang Yuan said, his voice like polished jade sliding over steel, "how rare to hear you address me by position rather than by blood. Truly, tonight must be a night worth remembering."

There was a flicker—just a flicker—of irritation in the elder's eyes. His lips tightened ever so slightly, the crinkle at the corner of his mouth twitching in restrained displeasure.

But before any words could escape, Fang Yuan turned away with effortless grace, his midnight robe catching the lanternlight in streaks of silver.

He lifted a hand and addressed the gathering crowd, voice poised and welcoming.

"But forgive me. Matters of state and scroll tend to devour time like hungry ghosts." He gave a wry smile. "Let's not keep our honored guests waiting, shall we?"

His smile held, but there was a tightness in his jaw that hadn't been there a moment ago. A small warning, buried behind courtesy.

And elder Guo take a step back and let the guest pass.

Like the lifting of a spell, the guests stirred with new energy, stepping forward with a blend of excitement and deference.

One by one, they introduced themselves, some bowing deeply, others wearing smiles polished by years of trade and diplomacy.

"Lu Tian, grain merchant of the Northern Valley," said a broad-shouldered man in fine blue robes. "My stores supply three provinces. I seek partnership with the Fang Family for security and expansion."

"Wu Feiyan," offered a slender woman with an air of precision, "our family deals in beast hides and pill ingredients. It would be an honor to operate under the Fang Family's protection."

Then came a younger voice, a lot more confident and sharper.

"Cheng Bo. I'm not from the city, but I come bearing artifacts for trade, including ancient tools and talismans. I wish to offer exclusive terms… should the Family Head be interested."

Fang Yuan listened, head slightly tilted, the faintest smile at the corner of his lips.

His presence radiated calm authority, the kind born not from posturing, but from absolute control.

When the last voice fell silent, he stepped forward, hands folded neatly at his back.

"To all of you," he said, voice steady as flowing ink, "the Fang Family extends its full hospitality. Coldwind City may be a place of shifting winds, but we," his gaze swept across the crowd, "are the mountain beneath."

There was a hush. Then nods. Low murmurs of approval. A few sideways glances between rival merchants assessing one another anew under Fang Yuan's confident gaze.

He smiled—cool, reserved, but not without warmth.

"Let the wine flow," he said softly, "and we'll speak of alliances… after the cups are raised."

The banquet truly began then, music rising, the scent of roasted spirit beast and rare spices carried on the night breeze.

But just before the banquet could reached full swing, a hush rippled through the courtyard, subtle but unmistakable.

Thevservants paused mid-step while conversations quieted.

Even the music softened to a distant hum.

They had arrived.

The true powerhouses of Coldwind City.

One by one, the family heads of the Four Great Clans entered through the main gate, each with a small entourage trailing behind them, robes gleaming beneath the lanternlight.

First came Zhao Ming of the Zhao Clan. Aged but still upright, his snow-white beard neatly combed, eyes sharp beneath heavy brows.

His robe was crimson with golden embroidery in the pattern of phoenix fire.

Though his qi was restrained, a faint pressure followed his every step like the heat before a storm.

He offered a short nod as he approached Fang Yuan.

"Family Head Fang," he said, voice gravelly yet resonant. "A spirit pond is not just a fortune, but a legacy. The Zhao Clan extends its congratulations. May your roots grow deeper with this blessing."

Fang Yuan inclined his head in return. "Clan Head Zhao's words are weighty. We will strive to honor them."

Next was He Long, striding in with the gait of a battle-hardened general.

His tunic bore the mark of the war serpent, and his hands while calloused and scarred, rested behind his back like a man always ready for combat.

"Well now," he said with a smirk, "so the quiet Fang Family managed to fish out a spirit pond from under the city's nose. Heh. I admit I didn't see it coming."

Then, in a more formal tone, "The He Clan offers its respect. Let's hope this acquisition brings balance, not waves."

Fang Yuan smiled faintly. "Balance often follows strength, Patriarch He. Thank you."

Then, with barely a sound, Matriarch Lin Xi appeared, graceful, expression serene, her long robe an intricate weaving of ink-dyed silks that shimmered like falling rain.

"An auspicious find," she said, her voice as calm as moonlight. "The Lin Pavilion acknowledges your fortune and your rising tide. Congratulations, Family Head Fang."

Fang Yuan offered a respectful bow. "To be recognized by the Lin Pavilion is an honor in itself. May our knowledge prosper together."

Last came Wu Shun—tall, rigid, and armored even for a formal event.

His cloak swept the ground like a banner, and the crest of a roaring lion blazed across his chest.

"The Wu Family congratulates you," he said gruffly. "But remember, power draws not only respect… but challenge."

Fang Yuan met his eyes evenly. "And we welcome both."

The tension between them hung for a moment then Wu Shun gave a tight nod and moved on.

Yet just when Fang Yuan thought the last of the notable guests had arrived—

"The Crown Prince—Lukas von Avetide!"

The guest announcer's voice rang out, sharp and reverent, slicing through the growing murmur like a blade through silk.

A hush fell once more. Even the air seemed to pause.

So… they even dare bring in the royal family's help?

Fang Yuan's fingers tapped the arm of his chair, slow and steady, the sound a quiet drumbeat beneath the tension.

His gaze sharpened, the faint glint of amusement in his eyes cooling into something harder—warier.

His jaw tightened ever so slightly, and the corner of his mouth pulled taut in a line between contempt and calculation.

A flicker of anger, cold and quiet.