The Blood Wolf Mercenary Company's temporary compound occupied the eastern quarter of Redstone City's mercenary district. A sprawling complex of converted warehouses that had seen better days. But the guards at the gates were sharp-eyed, the formations on the walls were freshly inscribed, and anyone with spiritual sense could feel the weight of core formation cultivators within.
Three of them, to be precise.
Though at the moment, one of those three was trying very hard not to scream.
Lang Zhanfeng sat on the edge of his bed, stripped to the waist, as the physician changed his bandages. The wounds beneath were healing, slowly and painfully, but healing nonetheless. Deep gouges across his chest and back, the marks of a demonic cultivator's corrupted qi techniques. The flesh around them was still discolored, tinged with the sickly purple of poison that hadn't fully purged.
"You're lucky to be alive," the physician said, not for the first time. "Another inch to the left and that strike would have severed your spine."
"I'm aware." Zhanfeng's jaw was tight. "Are we done?"
"For now. I'll return this evening to check the..."
"Fine. Leave."
The physician gathered his supplies and departed without another word. He'd been with the Blood Wolf Mercenary Company long enough to know when to push and when to retreat.
Alone, Zhanfeng allowed himself to slump. The movement pulled at his wounds, sending fresh waves of pain through his torso, but he didn't care. Pain was nothing. Pain he could handle.
It was the shame that burned.
Mid-stage core formation.
One stage above him. He'd beaten worse odds before.
But he hadn't won. He'd been carved apart like a training dummy, saved only when Zhanyue appeared from nowhere, scattered the cultists with a single technique, and carried his bleeding body back to camp.
Three weeks ago. Three weeks of lying in bed while his brothers coordinated the hunt without him.
A knock at the door.
"What?" Zhanfeng snapped.
The door opened to reveal Fang Lei, his second brother's lieutenant. A gruff man with more scars than hair. "Council meeting. All three brothers. Now."
"I'm injured."
"You can walk. The boss says now."
Zhanfeng wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Fang Lei exactly where he could shove his summons. But when the eldest brother called a council, you answered.
He reached for his robes, ignoring the scream of his wounds.
The meeting room was sparse. A table, six chairs, maps of the Blackwood region covering the walls. Lang Zhanyue, the eldest of the three brothers, sat at the head, his broad frame still and his face unreadable. Beside him stood Qin Hongye, his lieutenant, a woman whose calm demeanor hid a mind like a steel trap.
Lang Zhantian, the second brother, was already seated, arms crossed, face set in its perpetual scowl. Leaner than Zhanyue and sharper in the jaw, he looked up as the youngest entered, and his jaw worked once. Concern? Anger? Both?
"Sit down before you fall down," Zhantian growled. "You look half-dead."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're three weeks out from nearly dying because you couldn't keep your head in a fight." Zhantian's voice was hard. "Sit. Down."
Zhanfeng sat.
Silence hung in the room. Then Zhanyue spoke, his voice quiet and measured.
"The remaining cultists are still in the wind." Zhanyue's voice was flat. "We know they fled east after the fight. We know they're somewhere in this region. Beyond that, nothing."
A month ago, they'd finally cornered the demonic cultivators they'd been hunting, in the borderlands west of here. The fight had been bloody. They'd killed the leader and captured most of his followers, who were now en route to the domain capital for interrogation. But a handful of subordinates had escaped during the chaos, fleeing east. The Blood Wolf Mercenary Company had pursued them toward Redstone City, but lost the trail before reaching the walls. Three weeks of searching since then had turned up nothing.
"Then we pursue," Zhanfeng said immediately. "I can travel. My wounds..."
"Your wounds nearly killed you," Zhantian cut in. "The poison in your system hasn't fully cleared. You try to fight right now, you'll collapse in the first exchange."
"I won't..."
"You will." Zhantian leaned forward, his scarred face inches from Zhanfeng's. "You think I don't know you, little brother? You think I can't see it in your eyes? You want to prove yourself. You want to show you're not the weak link. But charging into battle before you're healed isn't courage. It's suicide."
"I'm not..."
"You nearly cost us a brother." Zhantian's voice dropped, suddenly quiet. Somehow, that was worse than the shouting. "Over your pride. Over your need to prove you're not 'the youngest' anymore. Their leader was stronger than you. You should have retreated. Instead, you charged in alone, and Zhanyue had to risk his life to save yours."
The words hit like physical blows. Zhanfeng opened his mouth to respond, found nothing there.
"Enough." Zhanyue's voice cut through the tension. "What's done is done. Blame helps no one."
"He needs to hear it," Zhantian said.
"He's heard it. Multiple times. From you, from me, from the physicians." Zhanyue's gaze settled on Zhanfeng, not unkind but utterly serious. "You made a mistake. You know it. Now we move forward."
Zhanfeng looked at his eldest brother. Really looked. Zhanyue was the oldest by a century, at mid-stage core formation, the leader who had built the Blood Wolf Mercenary Company from nothing. He'd been fighting since before Zhanfeng was born. And yet he never shouted. Never raged. Just weighed the situation quietly and moved on.
Why can't I be more like him?
"We've posted a bounty with the local Phantom Gate branch," Zhanyue continued. "Someone in this city saw something. It's only a matter of time before they come forward." He glanced at Qin Hongye. "The auction tomorrow. Status?"
"Last time this auction house held an event, they had plenty of high-grade healing pills. Worth acquiring regardless. If not for our current wounded, then for whatever comes next." She paused. "Competition will be fierce. The city's major clans will be attending, and there are rumors of buyers from Crimson Bastion."
"We'll secure what we need," Zhanyue said. "Our men come first."
He glanced at the maps covering the walls. Somewhere out there, three demonic cultivators were hiding. Waiting. Planning.
"When the intel comes through the Gate, we move," Zhanyue said.
"And if it doesn't?" Zhanfeng asked.
"Then we search the old way. Street by street. Building by building." Zhanyue's voice was calm, patient. "They can't hide forever."
...
Wang Ben found the tea house in the merchant district's quieter corner, tucked between a herbalist shop and a closed textile warehouse. A wooden sign above the door read "The Quiet Cup" in faded characters. Nothing remarkable. Nothing memorable. The buildings on either side leaned away from it, as though the street itself had forgotten this stretch existed.
That was the point.
He'd spent the morning asking careful questions in careful places. The Phantom Gate's local presence wasn't a single location but a web of establishments where certain services could be requested. Information bought and sold, connections made, deals brokered. The City Lord's mansion turned a blind eye. Not because the services were legal, but because the Phantom Gate was too powerful to challenge.
It hadn't taken long to find the right contact. A name whispered in the right ear, a spirit stone slipped to the right people, and he'd been pointed here. The process felt familiar in a way it shouldn't have, like tracing a path his feet already knew.
Wang Ben pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The interior was dim, lit by paper lanterns that cast warm shadows across wooden furniture worn smooth by centuries of use. A handful of patrons sat at scattered tables, nursing cups of tea and speaking in low voices. None looked up as he entered.
Behind the counter stood a middle-aged man in grey robes, unremarkable in every way. Forgettable features, calm face, hands folded before him.
"Tea," Wang Ben said.
The man looked him over. Mild eyes, unhurried. "What kind?"
"The kind that comes with discretion."
A slight nod. "Follow me."
He led Wang Ben through a beaded curtain into a private room at the back. Small, clean, furnished with only a low table and cushions. Wang Ben noticed the threshold hummed faintly as he crossed it, the protective formation woven into the doorframe so precisely that its energy was almost invisible. The man gestured for Wang Ben to sit, then settled across from him, pouring tea from a pot that had already been prepared.
"Shen Wuyan, humble owner of this little shop." His voice was soft, genuinely warm, the kind of tone that made you forget you were sitting in a back room with a stranger. "Please, have some tea."
Wang Ben accepted the cup but didn't drink. "I have information that certain people might want. I was told you can arrange that sort of exchange."
"Mm." Shen Wuyan sipped his own tea, unhurried. "What kind of intelligence?"
"Demonic cultivators. I know where they were three days ago, their approximate numbers, their direction of travel."
The man's face didn't change, but interest flickered in his eyes. "That's valuable information. How did you come by it?"
"I notice things."
"A body refinement cultivator notices demonic cultivators that half the city's qi condensation guards missed?" Shen Wuyan's eyebrows rose, but his tone stayed light, almost playful. "My, my. You must have very good eyes."
Wang Ben said nothing.
Shen Wuyan chuckled softly and refilled both their cups, as if they had all the time in the world.
"You're in luck," Shen Wuyan said finally. "There are interested parties. A bounty was posted recently for information on demonic cultivators matching your description. The reward is one defensive talisman. Grade 7, high quality. Strong enough to block a single attack from a late-stage foundation establishment cultivator, though a peak cultivator would likely punch through."
Wang Ben considered this. A talisman that could block a late-stage foundation establishment attack. Not much against the real threats of the world, but for someone at mid-stage body refinement, it could mean the difference between life and death.
"Acceptable."
Shen Wuyan measured him a beat longer. "Tell me what you saw. If it matches what the interested party is looking for, you'll have your talisman."
Wang Ben nodded. "Three days ago, near the eastern gate. I saw three people in plain robes, but their movement was wrong. Too coordinated. Too alert. And their qi..." He paused. "Corrupted. Faint, but I'm sure of it. Demonic cultivation."
Shen Wuyan's cup paused halfway to his lips. "Go on."
"I followed them. They left through the eastern gate, heading northeast toward the Dragon Spine foothills. Three of them, probably qi condensation. One was limping badly, some kind of wound that went deeper than flesh." Wang Ben paused. "Whatever hurt that one wasn't just trying to overpower them. It was precise."
Shen Wuyan sipped his tea, pleasant and unchanged. If the information meant anything to him, Wang Ben couldn't tell. The man's posture hadn't shifted, his breathing hadn't changed, his fingers still rested loosely around his cup. He might have been listening to a weather report.
"That matches," he said finally. "Precisely." He touched the pale ring on his left hand, and a jade slip materialized in his palm, roughly the size of his palm. Inscribed across its surface were formation patterns that glowed faintly with stored spiritual energy. "The bounty reward. Grade 7, high quality. Single use."
Wang Ben accepted the talisman, feeling the weight of the formations within. Real. Genuine. Worth more than he'd earned in his entire life.
"My fee is a tenth of any agreed compensation," Shen Wuyan added. "In this case, the interested party has already paid it as part of the bounty posting. You owe nothing."
"And the interested party?"
"Will receive your information through the appropriate channels." Shen Wuyan smiled. "That's how the Phantom Gate works. Buyers and sellers never meet. Anonymity is preserved. Reputations are protected."
Wang Ben nodded. He'd suspected as much. But something else nagged at him. In the cultivation world, nothing was ever truly free. Favors were debts, and debts were leverage. Even a clean transaction left a thread connecting buyer to seller, a thread that could be pulled later.
The thought sat uneasy beside the talisman's weight.
Wang Ben remained seated, the talisman heavy in his palm.
Across the room, Shen Wuyan poured fresh tea.
"You handled that well." The broker slid a cup across the table. "Better than most adults I've seen."
"I had good information."
"You had valuable information. There's a difference." Shen Wuyan's eyes lingered on Wang Ben, their depths unreadable. "Most people your age would have asked for money. Or pills. Or techniques. Something immediate. Something they could use now."
"A talisman is immediate."
"A talisman is protection. Preparing for disaster. That's not how fifteen-year-olds think." He lifted his cup and smiled, the smile so easy it was almost contagious. "You should visit again sometime. The tea here really is quite good, if I say so myself."
Wang Ben held the man's eyes and let the silence answer for him.
"You're an interesting young man, Wang Ben." Shen Wuyan smiled his small smile. "I hope we'll do business again."
Sitting in that warm room with tea cooling between them, Wang Ben almost believed him. The man's manner was so easy, so genuine, that the words didn't feel like a broker's pleasantry. They felt like something a teacher might say to a promising student.
"Perhaps," Wang Ben said, and meant it.
He rose, tucked the talisman into his inner robes, and left the tea house.
Behind him, Shen Wuyan sat alone in the quiet room, the smile fading from his face.
In countless centuries, he had read thousands of people. Cultivators, mortals, kings, beggars, killers, saints. He could tell a man's cultivation, his fears, his secrets, often within moments of meeting him.
But this boy...
He smiled to himself, a real one this time, with no one around to see it.
The boy was mid-stage body refinement. His cultivation was genuine, unremarkable. But the boy himself didn't fit. A calmness that didn't match his age. A precision in his report that spoke of experience he shouldn't have. Like finding a sword hidden inside a walking stick.
How fun.
Shen Wuyan had seen many things in his long life. He marked the boy in his memory and let the question rest. Not urgent. Just... interesting.
He caught himself turning the teacup in his hands the way she used to, three slow rotations before drinking, and set it down.
...
Wang Ben walked through the evening streets, the setting sun painting the buildings in shades of gold and red. His hand kept drifting to his chest, where the talisman rested against his heart.
Golden Bell Shield Talisman. Grade 7. Blocks one attack up to late-stage foundation establishment.
It wasn't much. Against the real threats in the world, the nascent soul cultivators and ancient clan powerhouses and entities that haunted his fragmented memories, it was nothing. A paper shield against a tidal wave.
But against the hundred smaller dangers that stood between him and survival?
It might be enough.
[TRANSACTION ANALYSIS: Complete]
[ACQUIRED: Golden Bell Shield Talisman (Grade 7)]
[DEFENSIVE CAPABILITY: Blocks one full-power attack from late-stage foundation establishment. Multiple weaker attacks possible before depletion.]
[ESTIMATED VALUE: 12-15 Mid-Grade Spirit Stones]
[ASSESSMENT: Favorable exchange. Intelligence provided cost Host nothing. Talisman provides significant survival advantage.]
The corner of Wang Ben's mouth moved. Trust the System to reduce everything to numbers.
[ADDITIONAL ANALYSIS: Contact "Shen Wuyan"]
[PROCESSING...]
A pause. Longer than usual.
[CONTACT ANALYSIS: Complete]
[DESIGNATION: "Shen Wuyan" - Cover Identity]
[APPARENT CULTIVATION: Core formation (estimated, based on observed behavioral markers)]
[WARNING: Significant irregularities detected]
Wang Ben's steps faltered.
What?
[NOTE: Behavioral patterns inconsistent with displayed cultivation. Micro-expressions indicate active suppression. Movement efficiency suggests combat training far exceeding core formation standard.]
[Cross-referencing historical assassination signatures...]
[POSSIBLE MATCH: Phantom Gate senior agent profiles (insufficient data for confirmation)]
[ACTUAL CULTIVATION: Unknown. Significantly higher than displayed. Possibly realm-class threat.]
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: Extreme. Subject could eliminate Host before defensive response possible.]
[CURRENT THREAT TO HOST: None. Subject showed no hostile intent.]
[ADDENDUM: Subject displayed unusual interest in Host. Reason unknown. Monitoring recommended.]
[NOTE: Maintain cordial relations. Do not antagonize.]
Wang Ben stopped walking entirely. His fingers went numb against the talisman in his robes, and the evening crowd flowed around him like water around a stone.
Realm-class threat.
The mild-mannered tea house owner. The soft-spoken broker who never raised his voice above a whisper. The man he'd shared tea with, exchanged information with, treated as a simple intermediary.
Could eliminate him before he could blink.
He thought back to the tea house. The room had felt small and quiet and ordinary. But now, with the System's words still ringing in his mind, he remembered it differently. Not threat, exactly. More like absence. The sense of something very large holding itself at arm's length from its own edges. A pressure that should have filled the room and didn't, because it had chosen not to.
Displayed unusual interest in Host.
Ice settled in Wang Ben's stomach.
He thought about how Shen Wuyan had looked at him. Those weighted silences. The comments about how he "handled things well" and "thought like a veteran."
The man had been reading him. Evaluating him. And Wang Ben, completely oblivious, had sat there thinking he was the one in control of the conversation.
What is someone that powerful doing in a frontier city like Redstone?
[INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR ACCURATE ASSESSMENT]
[HYPOTHESIS: Subject is in hiding. Cover identity suggests deliberate obscurity.]
[HOSTILE INTENT: Unlikely]
[CONTINUED OBSERVATION: Very likely]
Great. A kingdom-ruler level cultivator hiding in his city. Probably an assassin, given the "historical assassination signatures" the System had mentioned. And now that assassin was curious about him.
Wang Ben resumed walking, his mind churning.
Tomorrow was the auction. His father's hope. His family's future.
And somewhere in this city, a monster wore the face of a tea house owner and wondered why a fifteen-year-old boy carried the weight of millennia in his eyes.
He'd deal with what he could. Leave the rest for morning.
He clutched the talisman tighter and walked home.
...
In the back room of the Quiet Cup, Shen Wuyan sat alone with cold tea and the echo of a boy's voice.
Targeting their spiritual core specifically. Not just overwhelming them.
An interesting word. Not "attacking." Not "hurting." Targeting. As if the boy understood there was a distinction between violence and precision. As if he had seen enough of both to know which was which.
Shen Wuyan turned the teacup in his hands and let the question settle alongside the others.