Tragen Rho City, seven weeks north of Fuchsia Guild and beyond its borders, a child emerged from the forests carrying only a training sword as he walked through the gates. The City was perched like a weathered sentinel, seven weeks north of the Fuchsia Guild and far beyond the guild's neatly drawn borders where the land surrendered to wildness. The journey from the south had been a relentless trial, a pilgrimage through untamed forests and scarred plains that tested the endurance of even the hardiest travelers. From the shadowed depths of those woods, his small silhouette cut through the morning mist while his dark eyes glinted at guards with a quiet resolve that supported his outward looks.
The city sprawled before him like a living beast, its towering walls of weathered stone rising against a horizon bruised with slate-gray clouds. As Wuhlou crossed the threshold where a sprawling, the walls loomed high, their stones pitted and stained by centuries of wind, rain, and war. Each crack a testament to battles fought and forgotten like the spine of some ancient beast, jagged and unyielding. The walls cast long shadows that stretched across the dusty approach and beyond them the rooftops jutted unevenly, a patchwork of slate and timber dwarfed by the occasional spire or watchtower. The horizon behind was a bruised tapestry of heavy with the promise of rain, their edges tinged with the faint orange of the suns' struggling to break through while the air carried the distant hum of life.
Shouts, clangs, the low drone of a restless City—all a new experience to Wuhlou, it was a beast that might swallow him whole or spit him out, depending on his worth. The journey had been long, the road north roasted, ravaged by fires from a battle that seemed hard fought but now before him—the gates loomed as both a barrier and a promise.
Seven weeks of trudging through a landscape battered by conflict, where dust clogged his throat and wind lashed at his skin had left him leaner, harder. The path itself was a scar across the earth, its once-packed dirt now a churned mess of ash and debris, battle echoes lingered. Charred stumps lined the way, skeletal remains of trees felled by fire and blade, their blackened bark flaking into the breeze.
He'd passed the husks of abandoned carts, their wheels shattered and once, the bones of a beast too large to name, picked clean by scavengers. The fires had been fierce, their heat still seeping from the ground in places, a reminder of the cultivators or soldiers who'd clashed there. Now, as he stood before the gates, they towered above him, massive slabs of iron-bound wood studded with rivets the size of his fist. They were a barrier, yes, a wall between the chaos he'd survived and the chaos within—but also a promise, a gateway to something more.
The Guard, a mountain of battered steel, his presence filling the archway. He was a hulking figure, broad-shouldered and thick-limbed, his armor a patchwork under the overcast sky. "Entry's two spirit shards," he rumbled, his voice a deep growl that seemed to scrape against the stone. He extended a meaty hand, palm upturned, fingers calloused and scarred from years of gripping a spear. Wuhlou fished into his clothes, retrieving two small, translucent spirit shards, their surfaces cool against his skin. He dropped them into the guard's palm, they clinked against his gauntlet.
The guard's eyes shadowed beneath a dented helm as he flicked Wuhlou's training sword, a doubt crossing his weathered face. "Recruitment's what you're after, eh?" he said, almost to himself. "For a third shard, I'll point you to it." Wuhlou hesitated, then handed over another shard. The guard pocketed it with, jerking his thumb toward the city's heart. "Market square, past the smithies. Look for the banners. Don't die too quick, kid." His face etched with the weariness of a man who'd seen too many hopefuls pass through. The guard's face was a map of exhaustion, carved by time and disappointment. Deep lines creased his brow, radiating from eyes that were dulled, clouded with the haze of sleepless nights. The weariness wasn't just physical; it was a bone-deep fatigue, the kind that came from watching hope march in and corpses dragged out, year after year while his eyes were already drifting to the next figure approaching the gate.
The city bustled, its streets teeming with merchants, cultivators and wanderers. Streets snaked inward, cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of boots, hooves, and cartwheels, their surfaces slick with the morning's dew. Merchants crowded the thoroughfares, their stalls a riot of color—faded reds, sun-bleached yellows, patched greens—each draped with cloths that fluttered in the breeze. Cultivators strode among them, their robes flowing like liquid silk, some shimmering with infused Qi, their steps purposeful and proud. Wanderers shuffled in their wake, cloaked in dust and anonymity, their eyes darting for opportunity or escape. The air buzzed with traces energies and the clash of blades.
The atmosphere was electric, charged with commerce and combat. Spirit shards changed hands, their faint hum a constant undercurrent, a currency of power that fueled the city's heartbeat. From somewhere nearby came the sharp ring of steel on steel, a clash of blades that cut through the noise—another sparring match, perhaps, or a duel born of spilled pride. The sound reverberated off the stone walls as a reminder that Tragen Rho was a place where strength was survival.
Wuhlou tilted his head, catching the glint of a sword arcing through the air two streets over, its wielder a blur of motion amid a small crowd of onlookers. Scents of charred meat from vendor stalls mingled with the tang of metal and the faint, acrid whiff of Qi, a chaotic symphony through the city's veins.
The smells would occasionally assault Wuhlou's senses, a heady mix that told the story of souls. From the nearest stall wafted the rich, smoky scent of charred meat—skewers of some beast, dripping with grease, sizzling over an open flame tended by a vendor with stained hands. It blended with the forges belching sparks into the haze. Beneath it all lingered the byproducts of cultivators channeling their power—faint tendrils reminiscent the odd alchemical concoctions bubbling in a back alley nearby. Together, they wove a sensation that surged through crowd as alive as the people within it.
Wuhlou moved with a deliberate calm, his steps steady despite the chaos pressing in around him. Each footfall was a quiet declaration, a rhythm that kept him grounded amid the swirl of bodies and noise. The training sword at his back swayed slightly, its plain wooden surface unremarkable. Scratched and dulled by practice, it drew no eyes, a child's toy to the unobservant and unassuming. Beneath his garments hung the Palauan Talisman rested against his chest. It hummed, its magic cloaking his aura to dulle the spark of Qi that might have betrayed his potential. To the world, he was a shadow, a boy of no consequence, his presence muted in a city that roared with power. The talisman was was a secret he guarded closely, a gift from a past couldn't relate to, that let him slip through the world unnoticed, a ghost among giants.
To everyone else he seemed ordinary, a nobody in a city that thrived on power.
To the merchants haggling over shards, the cultivators flexing their might, the guards scanning the crowds, Wuhlou was a scrawny boy in a tattered tunic, his sword a laughable prop. In Tragen Rho, where power was flaunted like a banner—auras flaring, blades gleaming, voices booming—he was a speck, dismissed with a glance or ignored entirely But beneath that façade burned a quiet fire. A purpose that drove him forward, unseen by those who thrived on the city's brutal hierarchy.
As he continued to walk the streets the city unfolded in a riot of life.
Wuhlou found himself swallowed by the city's vibrant chaos. The interior was living tapestry, threads of motion and color weaving together in a relentless dance. Streets branched like arteries, narrow and twisting, their paths wrank with the sweat of the day. Buildings leaned close, their timber creaking under the weight of years passed.
Children darted through the press, their laughter sharp; a cart rumbled past, its driver barking at a stray dog; a woman in a doorway muttered curses as she swept ash from her stoop. It was raw and unfiltered, a stark contrast to the silent forests he'd left behind.
"Talismans! Ward off sickness, bolster your Qi!" one nearby merchant bellowed waved a string of carved stones that glowed faintly green. "Trinkets, infused with the breath of the ancients!" another cried, holding aloft a bauble that pulsed with a soft, erratic light. Nearest Wuhlou, a grizzled man thrust a skewer forward, its meat charred and glistening, grease dripping onto the stones. "Fresh kill, spiced with fire root—two shards!" The smells and sounds clashed, a marketplace alive.
Cultivators in flowing robes moved with purpose, their auras flaring in brief and the brilliant outbursts of stupidity as they bartered or tested their skills in impromptu duels and infighting.
"A bunch of show offs," Whispers noted.
Cultivators stood out, their presence a ripple in the crowd. Their robes flowed like water—silks of jade green, deep violet, or blood red—some shimmering with Qi woven into the fabric. They moved with a grace that spoke of training, their steps measured, their eyes sharp with intent. Wuhlou saw the stupidity in such displays, wasting energy for show.
Wuhlou's dark eyes scanned it all, his face a mask of quiet determination, the weight of his sword a steady anchor against his shoulder.
Wuhlou's gaze swept the scene, dark eyes sharp beneath a fringe of unkempt hair, taking in every detail—the flicker of an aura, the glint of a shard, the sway of a banner. His face remained a mask, lips pressed into a thin line, betraying nothing of the storm within. Determination burned there, a quiet ember that had carried him through the wilderness and into this maelstrom. The sword at his back was a constant, its weight pressing against his shoulder blade, a reminder of his purpose. It wasn't much—a training blade, blunt and scarred—but it was his, and it steadied him as he navigated the chaos, a tether to the path he'd chosen.
The air vibrated with the clanging of weapons, a vibration that Wuhlou felt in his chest. A rhythmic clang as two the cultivators traded blows in front of him, their blades sparking with each strike as he bit into a snack.
In the distance, drums pounded, their beat strong and insistent. Wuhlou caught glimpses through the crowd where banners were aloft, dancers in masks of beasts and spirits, their movements synchronized to the rhythm. The sound carried on the wind, a call to celebration, blending with the city's ceaseless noise.
"These positions will be left to you once you've showed the peak masters what you're capable of, don't screw this up." A voice sliced through the clamor, sharp and commanding, pulling Wuhlou's attention to his left. A woman stood at the head of a group of disciples, her words a whip-crack over the festival's din. The woman's tone brokered no dissent. "Don't screw this up." She was tall, her posture rigid as a blade, her voice carrying the weight of authority that seemed earned. Her eyes swept over her people, a dozen young men and women who stood straighter under her gaze with their faces a mix of resolve and trepidation.
Wuhlou paused, watching from the edge of the crowd, her words echoing in his mind.
The woman was clad in pristine white robes, the fabric unmarred by dust or sweat. She stood with her group of disciples, judging by their deference. Their stares were a mix of curiosity and disdain upon Wuhlou, lingering on his ragged tunic, the half-wrecked sword and dust that covered him head to toe.
One whispered to another, her lips curling in a faint smirk but Wuhlou kept his gaze forward to ignore their judgment. "Do I make myself clear?" Her voice cut through the festival's clamor, her gaze sweeping over her disciples like a sharpened edge, silencing them. "Do I make myself clear?" she demanded again, her voice a honed edge that cleaved through the noise and distraction. A slow, deliberate arc that pinned each one in place, it was a look that promised consequences.
The festival's clamor seemed to dim in her presence, the shouts and drums fading to a murmur as her authority asserted itself. Wuhlou felt the shift, the way the air tightened, and glanced at her again, noting the power she wielded with words alone. The disciples stood in a semicircle, their postures rigid, their eyes fixed on her with a mix of awe and fear.
"Yes Senior!" they all replied. Again they cried out, "Yes, Senior!" chorused, their voices ringing out in unison, trembling notes that cut through the air. They were dressed in matching uniforms and the women were all beautied with strong foundations, their outward grace, a deliberate contrast to the rough-hewn chaos surrounding them.
An Qi of unknown origina danced in the air with subtle ripples of power that felt like the brush of silk against skin, hinting at rigorous training and a lineage Wuhlou couldn't quite place. The air around shimmered faintly, cool and smooth. It wasn't the raw, explosive power of the street duels but something refined, controlled—a product of long hours under a master's eye.
The source was unfamiliar, but distinct from the sects he'd passed or glimpsed on the road. Wuhlou tilted his head, trying to place it.
As he passed, more tables and groups glances lingered and some disciples started to gossip about his ragged form, the half-wrecked sword at his hip, and the dust clinging to his boots. Their eyes followed him as he moved past, a point of attention that prickled at his neck. The more curious among them leaned closer to one another, their whispers a soft hiss beneath the festival's roar. "Look at him—ragged as a beggar," one muttered, her tone dripping with scorn. "That sword's a toy, not a weapon," another added, stifling a laugh. "Dust halfway up his legs—he's walked from the end of the world." Their gossip was a sharp and petty blade but Wuhlou kept his stride even, unchanged, letting their words slide off him like rain.
Wuhlou refused to meet their stares, his eyes fixed ahead, unreadable. Their judgment was noise, irrelevant to the path he walked. His focus turned inward, drawn by the silent voice of Whispers, hidden beneath his garments next to the talisman. It was a thread of clarity in his mind, guiding him through the chaos with counsel only he could hear. "Ignore them," Whispers barked, its tone calm and precise. "Their words are wind. Keep moving."
Wuhlou made his way through the crowd.
He pressed forward, weaving through the bodies. The crowd was a river, flowing around him. Tragen Rho was only a medium-sized township but it was surrounded by smaller ones, it was no sprawling metropolis, its size modest compared to the distant capital yet it held a gravity all its own. Sprawled across a wide plateau, its edges fraying into smaller villages that clung to its outskirts. Those hamlets—clusters of thatch and stone—depended on the city for trade, protection, and the promise of power. Wuhlou had passed through a few on his journey, their fields parched, their people wary, their eyes always turning toward the city's walls.
Whenever something big happened within the region, it was there.
The city was a nexus, a fulcrum for the region's ambitions and crises. Its streets had seen blood spilled, its markets swelled with refugees fleeing disaster, its walls braced against threats that smaller towns couldn't withstand.
Wuhlou felt its pull now, the weight of history and opportunity drawing him deeper.
The capital city of Rogaan was on the other side of the country yet so many were present.
Tragen Rho was a nexus, a beating heart for the scattered villages that clung to its edges.
It was more than a city; it was a lifeline, a beating heart that pumped vitality into the scattered villages encircling it. Watchtowers crowned them at intervals, their pointed roofs piercing the sky, manned by archers whose silhouettes Wuhlou could just make out against the clouds. The repairs were uneven, a patchwork of necessity but the walls held a history of defiance that spoke loudly.
The festival was amplified by it's ability to drawing sects from across the land for competition, their banners fluttering like a kaleidoscope in every direction. The festival was in full swing, Sects from across the land had descended, drawn by the promise of recruitment, their banners snapping in the wind . Silk and cloth fluttered—crimson phoenixes, jade cranes, black serpents—each a declaration of strong lineage and power. The square ahead was a forest full of them, swaying above tables and pavilions, their colors vivid against the clouded sky. Wuhlou felt the weight of their presence, a gathering of forces that could shape a persons fate.
Through it all, Wuhlou's focus remained a blade's edge, honed by Whispers' silent counsel. The voice was steady in his mind, cutting through the noise with precision. "Stay sharp," its tone detached. "The festival is a mask —opportunity lies beneath but so does danger." Wuhlou nodded faintly, trusting the guidance that had brought him that far, his steps unwavering as he pressed toward the square.
The melodies were haunting notes laced with Qi that tugged at the spirit, urging listeners to linger or spend. The musicians' melodies were more than sound—they were a spell laced with Qi that coiled around the skin like tendrils. It was a subtle art, a manipulation Wuhlou came to recognize and resist, his will unphased.
In the plazas, cultivators continued clashes with controlled ferocity, their strikes sending sparks of energy arcing through the air, drawing cheers or gasps from onlookers. To his right, two cultivators faced off for several minues, their clash a mere display.
A woman in green robes lunged, her spear a blur, its tip trailing red sparks of Qi. Her opponent, a man in gray, parried with a curved blade, a burst of violet energy arcing from the impact. The strikes sent sparks flying, bright motes that danced through the air, drawing cheers from the onlookers
A child gasped as the woman flipped backward, landing with a flourish, her aura flaring briefly to the crowd's delight. It was theater as much as combat, a show of skill to catch a recruiter's eye.
Whispers' disliked it all. "They perform for attention," its analysis cold. "You seek substance. Move toward the tables ahead." The counsel kept his purpose sharp as a blade.
An old man with an eye patch frowned when he approached and saw the training sword. "What do you want, kid?" he growled, Elbows on the table as his gnashed his hands together resting on a faded green cloth marked with a chipped jade crane carving.
"Small thing like you," the man continued, his lip curling, "you're just a snack for the Fiends and Cannibals. Get lost." His words were a dismissal, sharp and final, his hand waving Wuhlou off like a fly.
The Fiends and Cannibals—beasts or men, names spoken to drive fear. The man's scorn was empty and Wuhlou's expression didn't flicker, his resilience a shield forged by years of rejection.
His voice was rough and his single eye narrowed at Wuhlou's unassuming complexion, dismissing him as feeble.
"Jade Crane Sect", a name Wuhlou vaguely recalled from traveler's tales. The banner above fluttered weakly, its silk torn, the crane's image barely discernible, a symbol of a sect clinging to past glory. He turned to leave, no longer speaking and simply went on to the next table.
Hundreds of organizations had gathered to recruit during the festival, there were shortage of Clans and Sects within the City. The whole of the market square was a battlefield of recruitment, organizations vying for talent under their banner.
Tables stretched in rows, a labyrinth of cloth and wood, each manned by recruiters with sharp eyes and sharper tongues. Sects, guilds, mercenary bands—all had come, their presence a testament to their numbers swelling the city beyond its usual bounds, each seeking new blood to fill their ranks.
The Jade Crane Sect's chipped table sat beside others—the Vibrant Sun Pavilion's red silks shimmered ahead, a beacon of allure; a mercenary band displayed a rack of notched axes; a minor sect dangled orbs of pulsing light. Each sought new blood to fill their ranks, their recruiters looked for potential, displays of the desperate or the bold.
The square was a battlefield of ambition, Tables clustered like war camps, their banners snapping in the gusts—silk banners of rich sects fluttered beside tattered cloth of lesser ones. A black serpent coiled on one, a golden sun blazed on another, each a claim staked in fabric and dye. The air crackled with their rivalry, a silent war waged through glances and boasts.
The Jade Crane Sect's banner hung above its table, a serene bird in flight stitched in faded green, its elegance marred by age. Beside it, the Vibrant Sun Pavilion's banner shimmered, bold red drapes that danced like flames licking at the Suns.
Further along, a woman sat, her legs crossed with a casual grace that drew attention. She was poised, almost lounging, her posture a stark contrast to the rigid discipline of the white-robed sect. Her table was smaller, less cluttered but her presence filled the space with a quiet confidence that needed no banner to proclaim. She yawned in contempt for those who ignored her. Her attire was daring, half-dressed by the standards of Tragen Rho's cultivators—a silk robe slipped off one shoulder, revealing smooth skin, its hem riding high on her thighs. Several disciples flanked her, young men and women in tight silks, playing as if to follow her seductive thread.
Behind her hung paintings on simple wood, flowers bloomed, a tiger paced—all dancing gently to the rhythm of the music. The effect was mesmerizing, a blend of art and Qi that swam with each note, drawing gasps from those who paused too long.
Wuhlou felt the pull, a tug at his senses, but shook it off, wary of its charm. "Too many distractions.." He blinked harder to clear his mind of the paintings' motion that captivated onlookers.
Wuhlou's gaze had lingered, drawn by the spectacle—the woman's poise, the shifting art, the music's pull. It was a rare beauty amid the city's grit and for a moment, he was just a boy, captivated.
But Whispers' cut through, sharp and clear. "A trap," .."Their power is illusion, their resources fleeting. Move on."
"A trap," Wuhlou repeated his words "Their power is illusion??" The warning was precise, a dissection of the scene before him. "Move on." Whispers judgment, its logic a lifeline, tore his attention away, stepping past the table with renewed purpose.
Wuhlou continued walking, looking for tables that showed better potential but each time Whispers gave him solid reasons to avoid them and pointed out each individual issue, treating the occasion as a matter of life or death. Whispers was relentless, its counsel a filter that stripped away each of the sects shortcomings and faults. At one table, he noted hidden fees in what they had claimed was the contract to join; at another, a sect's aura was strong but its resources were pathetic. "This is life or death," Whispers insisted, treating every choice as a precipice.
Wuhlou nodded faintly, trusting its ruthlessness, his path narrowing with each rejection.
"We're looking to exploit resources, not make friends. Remain focused." Whispers' voice was stern in his mind, dissecting each sect's flaws, their hidden obligations, predatory terms, or scarce resources with ruthless precision, urging Wuhlou to navigate the crowded square with care.
"We're looking to exploit resources, not make friends," Whispers said, its voice stern, a commander in his mind. At a table draped in black, a sect promised martial glory—swords gleamed, a recruiter spoke of battles won, victories etched in stone. But Whispers saw deeper. "A blood oath," it noted, "binds your soul to their will. It's slavery, not glory. Pass." Wuhlou moved on, giving the sect no more of his time.
The table after that glowed with alchemical allure—vials shimmered, a robed figure whispered of secrets to transcend mortality. Whispers cut through. "They hoard the best reagents for their elite. What's left is scraps—useless to you." Wuhlou turned away, the glow dimming in his eyes.
Each step was a gamble, each rejection a narrowing of paths and Wuhlou felt the weight of survival pressing harder with every table he passed.
Each step through the square was a gamble, a roll of dice with his future as the stake. Each rejection narrowed his paths, the options thinning like a noose tightening.
A sudden commotion broke his focus—a Demon Hunter burst through the crowd, his protective talismans activated, glowing at his chest. He ran with desperate speed, boots pounding the cobblestones, his battered armor streaked with blood. The crowd parted like waves, shouts dying as he tore toward the Hunters Guild, a storm of motion in the square's chaos.
His protection talismans shimmered, a glow tracing the blood streaking his torso, drenching his battered armor in crimson. The plates were cracked, torn, clinging to him like a second skin that flapped as he moved, a wave of bodies pushed away from the Hunter's path.
Merchants clutched their wares, cultivators stepped back, children were yanked aside—the crowd parted like water before a blade, their eyes wide, their voices hushed in his wake.
Murmurs swelled as he dashed on, a ripple of speculation following him toward the Hunters Guild's distant spire. His breath was sharp but consistent, a runner trained for endurance, cutting through the square with a purpose.
"Demon attack?" someone questioned.
"He's fleeing," another hissed.
He was a storm incarnate with boots pounding, leaving smears of blood in his wake. Each step was a thunderclap, a rhythm of urgency that shook his figure, a blur of resolve.
His eyes were wide and haunting like the grime on his face, locked on the guild's distant spire—a tall, jagged silhouette. They held a terror Wuhlou recognized, a look he'd seen in men who'd stared death down.
In the sparring rings, fighters paused mid-strike, their Qi dissipating like mist—blue and gold tendrils fading as they turned to watch. A sword hung in the air, its wielder watching the scene closely, the clash stilled as the Hunter's passing restared the square's rhythm, a moment of unity in uncertainty.
The air grew heavy, the coppery scent of blood wafting from the Hunter's trail and It was a feeling that raised hairs, a silent alarm that something—someone—had breached the city's fragile peace.
"Something must have happened," the crowd speculated, their voices growing intense, a chorus of fear and fascination. "A massacre," one said, eyes wide.
"Demons broke through," another insisted, gripping a dagger. The words fed on themselves, swelling into a tide of rumor that swept the square.
Some wondered aloud if he was fleeing the battle, their tones a mix of scorn and doubt. "Ran from his duty," a burly man sneered, arms crossed.
"Or ran to warn us," a thinner voice countered, trembling. The debate flickered, unresolved, as the Hunter disappeared from view.
"Cowards always run," a few mocked, their scorn loud but brittle. They spat on the ground, a gesture of contempt but their hands stayed close to their weapons, betraying the unease in their words.
Their scorn was laced with doubt, a thin veneer over the fear that crept in—eyes following the Hunter's vanishing figure, tracking the blood smears until they faded into the crowd. It was a doubt that gnawed, a question of what could break a man so trained, so armed.
"Demons at the gates," one hissed. "He'll bring them down on us," another boasted, puffing his chest. The rumors grew wilder, louder, a storm of lies and panic.
A merchant nearby scrambled to store his wares —talismans and herbs bundled in his arms—muttering about demon incursions under his breath. "They'll raid the stores first," he grumbled, his grip slipping.
Several young cultivator, fists clenched, sneered at the Hunter's back blindly, thier voices loud with vicious thoughts —"Coward!"— but it faltered as the blood trail stretched longer, a track that mocked his courage.
"If a Demon Hunter believed his party was in danger, he would have stayed with them to help." A beautiful voice cut steady and firm. "If a Demon Hunter believed his party was in danger, he would have stayed with them to help," she said again, drawing Wuhlou's eyes, the woman dismounted a scaled steed at the square's edge. She wore a sword on her belt, her armor gleaming, her presence a sudden anchor in the chaos.
She was knightly, her polished steel armor catching the gray light, each plate etched with faint runes that pulsed with subtle Qi—a craftsmanship. A longsword hung at her belt, its black leather hilt steady, the blade exuding a quiet threat. She dismounted her scaled steed with fluid grace, its onyx eyes flashing, its green-black hide shimmering as she patted its flank. With a low command, it snorted, tail lashing, and moved to the square's edge—a beast of muscle and scale, bred for war, its loyalty fierce. She stepped forward, boots ringing on the stones, her armor clinking softly with a predator's grace, her voice a deep timbre that silenced murmurs. Dark eyes scanned the crowd sharply with authority and disdain, bending the world to her will.
"Yea, but what if they're trapped or captured?" a cloaked figure muttered, his voice barely audible, trembling as he shrank under her piercing stare. He was a poor man, his patched cloak stained, hands clutching its frayed edges. His words slipping out like a raw confession. Her gaze penetrated him sharplyand he flinched, his bony fingers dirt-streaked.
"Oh?" she mocked, cocking her head, braid swinging slightly, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "From now on, I'll follow you into the battlefield then, okay? Don't have anything to say? Demon Hunters die, and without their reports, many more could." She moved toward him slowly, her heel crunching dirt, armor clinking like a death knell. He stumbled, cloak tangling, face paling as she loomed. "Sure, his party might be in danger—he's from Cloud Gate, not a low-ranking shit herder like you but go on, tell me about battlefields. I'm sure you too could run for hours with an arrow in your lung, just to report failure." Her words were a honed blade cutting deep, her contempt closed the distance, her sarcasm a lash that stripped him bare.
She kicked dust at him, a cloud of grit swirling as he cowered, coughing and flailing, face ashen. "Truly cowards," she snorted. "Go on, give it a go. The Army's Middle Assembly needs men—cut through the Marsh, save three days. Maybe you'll get there faster than he did." He whimpered, "Suicide, I beg you… mercy," his pleas pitiful as dust clung to his sweat-streaked face. The crowd snickered, their laughter sharp and cruel, echoing through the bustling square.
"I am Adyno Ferran, Knight of Orimelous and 1st Lieutenant of the Great Glazed Oriel Division," she roared, Qi surging like a tempest. "Never forget what they took from us; the Demons have brought war to our borders. I'll show no mercy to rumor-mongers. Guards!" Iron-helmed guards hauled him away, her voice a lion's bellow, her power flaring—a wave of heat and pressure silencing the snickers. She drew herself up, armor glinting like a beacon, a monument to fury.
Few moments passed and, as if it had always been a lie, everything returned to clammor.
A young man unleashed kicks, his Qi flaring blue, earning a recruiter's nod. Rotten banners flew in the distance, a strange mushroom against a starry void, their fungal table pulsing with an earthy flavor. Three women sat behind it, quiet and confident, their presence a challenge.
A Beast Trainer in the Post-Breathing Phase, his leathers stained with beast blood, mocked them, a baby Gorcrok with blue scales snarling on his shoulder. "Creeping Hollow, proof that shit can reach the heavens. Every year it's the same —I'm surprised you can breathe out of that face." His sneer was practiced.
Wuhlou pushed past him dismissing Whispers' tempered advice and stood before them. "What benefits are there? Can you teach me to fight?" he asked directly despite his lack of aura.
The crowd burst into laughter—"A child who can't wipe his own ass!" —slapping thighs, spitting near his feet. "Youngsters need a tit to suckle; hers look good enough," one jeered, leering.
"Che," a petite woman in red stood furious, her dark green haze like venomous tendrils. "You like girls with big chests, huh?" Her Qi flared, golden blades of smoke drilling outward—"Jade Wind." The fungal table vanished into her ring, a ball of rotating shards surrounding her. She stepped forward, jade shards rising, shattering cobblestones, scattering spectators with screams and debris.
The Beast Trainer smirked, brushing her hair aside, his breath hot. "There's room for you, pipsqueak—wait your turn."
Her anger ignited, blades slicing the Gorcrok apart, its scales littering the road. The Felnon woman's club knocked it's owner unconscious, the Denoakin dragging him off into a ditch.
"Recruiters are strict," Whispers noted. "You'll need to show your abilities."
"Hey, kid. Are you coming?" the green-eyed woman called, her black hair swaying, gaze sharp but not unkind. The Felnon woman loomed beside her, club slung over her shoulder in a silent dare.
Wuhlou hesitated, heart thudding, then stepped toward them, the promise of more pulling him into the unknown.