The first light of dawn sneaked through the shutters of the Gilded Carp Inn, much like a hesitant thief, transforming Robert's plain room into a canvas of gray and gold.
He had slept fitfully, his cultivator's senses attuned to every creak of the building, every footstep in the corridor beyond his door. The city never truly slept—even through the walls, he could hear the distant rumble of early comrce beginning its daily rhythm.
After washing and adjusting his appearance, he descended to the inn's common room. The atmosphere had shifted from the previous evening's casual revelry to the focused energy of people with business to conduct. As rchants devoured their bowls of rice porridge, they kept a close eye on their ledgers. rchants were busy gulping down rice porridge as they reviewed their ledgers, while cultivators checked their equipnt with the kind of ticulousness that cos from knowing danger could be around the corner. In the anti, the innkeeper moved with effortless efficiency and grace between tables.
Robert ordered a simple al and listened to the morning's gossip. Beast attacks had delayed a grain shipnt from the southern provinces. A standout event to look forward to is the unique exhibition of rare cultivation resources at the Morning Glory Market. It is an ideal spot for people-watching, especially if you want to see the city's young elite in their elent.
In the middle district, the market was housed in a vast network of connected courtyards, with tall gates adorned with protective shapes that humd with power that was scarcely contained. Crowds waited for the official opening, pressing against the barriers even at this early hour. Robert joined the crowd, his rchant's eye cataloging the assortnt of sincere rchants, inquisitive farrs, and obvious spies from all sides.
When the gates swung open, the crowd surged forward like water breaking through a dam. Robert allowed the current to carry him into the heart of the market, where hundreds of stalls displayed treasures that would have bankrupted lesser cities. Spirit herbs glowed with internal light from crystal cases, weapons sang with trapped qi, and alchemical pills radiated power that made his enhanced senses tingle.
But Robert's attention focused on the people rather than the goods. Here, the city's cultivation elite moved with the casual arrogance of those born to power. Young disciples in expensive robes examined rchandise with the detached interest of buyers who had never worried about cost. Elders of the sect trailed at a respectful distance, prepared to assist their charges in making any purchases they so desired.
Robert drifted among them, a quiet observer in a sea of voices. His gaze took in every detail—the cut of a robe, the calluses on a hand, the faint shimr of qi when one disciple brushed against another. You could see their strength, weakness, arrogance, and caution just by the way they moved.
A group near a blacksmith's stall drew his attention. Three young n, each dressed in dark green robes embroidered with a silver river motif, were testing blades under the watchful eye of the smith. Their insignia marked them as mbers of the Carr clan—a minor power in the city, but one propped up by an alliance with the Walkers. Their presence here was not unusual, but their swagger was telling.
Robert lingered by a nearby stall, pretending to examine spirit-forged trinkets while he listened.
"You call this steel?" One Carr disciple sneered, tossing a blade back onto the counter. "My clan would not arm dogs with such trash."
The blacksmith bowed low and mumbled an apology as his jaw tightened. People around them averted their gazes as if they did not notice. Their mouths were pressed thin with swallowed resentnt, and Robert could see the tension in their shoulders. Everyone here knew it was risky to cross the Carrs. Supporting the Walker clan allowed them to act like lords in a city where they should have been re footnotes.
Then Robert saw him.
Striding through the crowd with all the subtlety of a storm was Ewan Carr, the son of the clan head himself. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his robe richer than the others, stitched with threads that caught the sun. His features carried the smugness of soone who had never once been denied anything in his life. At twenty-two years of age, he was technically eligible for the upcoming competition, though his cultivation was only at Spirit Root level one. It did not matter—his arrogance was armor enough, for the na of Walker stood behind him.
The crowd parted as Ewan moved, not from respect but from fear. He seed to enjoy their unease, his smile curling cruelly as he walked. At a nearby seller's stall, he stopped, plucked a ripe pear, and bit into it without a word. Juice dribbled down his chin as he tossed a single copper onto the stand.
The fruit seller bowed deeply, though Robert could see the man's hands trembling as he clutched his stall.
"Delicious," Ewan declared loudly, turning so that everyone nearby would hear. "But far too cheap. Raise your prices, old man—unless you want to think your pears are worthless."
Laughter erupted from his followers. The fruit seller forced a smile that looked more like a grimace.
Robert's jaw tightened, but he remained still. This was not his battle. He had co here to learn, to observe. Picking a fight with the Carrs so soon would be foolish. He turned slightly, intending to slip deeper into the crowd.
And then Ewan's voice rang out behind him.
"You there—rchant!"
Robert's steps faltered. He had not been walking fast, but now he froze, the weight of attention landing squarely on his back. Slowly, deliberately, he turned.
Ewan was staring straight at him, a pear clutched in one hand, his eyes gleaming with challenge.
"Yes, you," Ewan drawled, stepping closer. "I do not recognize your face. Which caravan do you travel with?"
Robert kept his expression neutral, his voice mild. "I move between provinces. Small goods, nothing worth noting."
The smirk on Ewan's face widened. "Is that so? Then you will not mind paying a small… Tax. The streets here are dangerous, you see, and not everyone is fortunate enough to have the Carr clan ensuring order."
The implication hung heavy in the air. Around them, people grew quiet, their gazes flickering nervously between Robert and the Carrs. Everyone had seen this before. A stranger caught in Ewan's gaze was as good as prey.
Robert's first instinct was to leave it. To turn away, toss a few coins, and disappear. But sothing inside him—sothing sharp and unwilling to bend—rebelled at the thought. If he submitted, even under disguise, what would it an? What would it make him when the blood of his clan demanded pride?
"I pay taxes to the city guard," Robert said calmly, his eyes never leaving Ewan's. "Not to wandering thugs."
A hush fell over the market.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then Ewan's smile cracked, giving way to a dark scowl. His disciples shifted behind him, hands twitching toward their weapons.
"What did you say?" Ewan's voice was low and dangerous.
Robert let the mont hang, then repeated, his tone sharper now: "I said I do not pay thieves."
The crowd rippled with a collective gasp. rchants froze; parents pulled their children back. Everyone knew what ca next.
Ewan's face twisted with fury. He flung the half-eaten pear to the ground, juice splattering across the stones. "You dare?"
With a flick of his hand, two of his followers stepped forward, drawing short swords. The sun caught on the steel as they fanned out, flanking Robert.
Robert's pulse quickened, but his body remained loose, ready. He had expected danger sooner or later—perhaps not this soon, but he would not shrink now.
"I will give you one chance," Ewan snarled, pointing a finger at him. "Kneel, beg forgiveness, and perhaps I will let you crawl away. Refuse, and I will have your tongue torn out in the street."
The market held its breath.
Robert's eyes narrowed. Beneath the hood of his cloak, his golden gaze flashed, though no one here recognized it for what it was. He had promised himself to be restrained, to avoid drawing attention, but so monts could not be walked away from.
Slowly, he reached for the hilt of his blade.
The first disciple of Carr charged forward, aiming a strike at Robert's shoulder. The blade whistled through the air like a snake. Quick on his feet, Robert dodged to the side, his cloak billowing behind him, and drove the tip of his sword into the man's ribs. With a swift motion, he swept his leg out, sending the attacker crashing to the ground, gasping and hunched over in pain.
The second ca in fast, blade flashing toward Robert's neck. In one smooth motion, Robert drew his sword fully, the steel gleaming with restrained power. He parried the strike, sparks flying, then pivoted to slam his elbow into the man's jaw. Bone cracked, and the disciple staggered back, blood spraying from his mouth.
The crowd erupted in shouts, scattering to the edges of the square. Stalls toppled as rchants pulled back their goods, desperate not to be caught in the crossfire.
Ewan's fury only deepened. He barked an order, and more of his followers surged forward. Robert braced himself, sword at the ready, every nerve alive.
This was no longer just observation. This was survival.
Robert beca acutely aware of one fact as the market collapsed around him: Celestial Brook City would not let him spend much ti in the shadows.
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