The Town was larger than Han Yu expected—not quite a proper city, but not so backwater hamlet either.
There were dozens of low, stone buildings ringed by outer wooden fencing. Watchtowers stood at the north and west corners, and flickering lanterns hung from posts that lined the single main road. People moved about, so wearing traveler’s robes, others in light armor. Cultivators, yes—but not many that seed powerful.
From what he could see, only a handful gave off any significant aura pressure, and even those felt like they were still within the Qi Refining realm, maybe Late or Peak Stage at best.
That was good. Less risk.
He also spotted several rchant carts, laden with goods—spirit herbs, stones, weapons—moving through the open gates with little inspection. A trader’s hub, then. The kind of place where people passed through quickly and talked too much in taverns.
Perfect for gathering information.
Han Yu settled into the grass and took out one of the smaller maps he’d taken. The town was marked, though only with a minor note: Trade Outpost. Southern Approach. Unimportant.
He chuckled. "Unimportant to them, maybe. But to ? This might just be the easiest place to find out what the Mist Eye Sect’s been up to without alerting anyone."
Still, he couldn’t just stroll in looking like a vagabond who’d been dragged through a fire and chewed on by vultures.
He carefully unwrapped his face and applied a thin layer of spirit balm to ease the redness. He’d need to let it settle before covering it again. Then, he adjusted the Mist Eye robes and removed the outer layer, stuffing it into his bag. For now, he’d enter as a traveling cultivator—one of many. With his glaive wrapped and slung over his back, he looked less like a warrior and more like a weary wanderer.
And that suited him just fine.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon and shadows began to stretch long across the basin, Han Yu made his way down the hill, cautious and silent, moving like a shadow on the rocks.
The town awaited.
And with it, answers.
Han Yu entered the town without issue.
The guards at the wooden gate spared him no more than a passing glance—one of them even yawned behind his spear as Han Yu walked past. There were no inspection booths, no spiritual scans, and no cultivation aura detectors. Just two n in dull armor and worn-out boots, standing around like it was the safest job in the world.
It was perfect.
Han Yu let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. If anyone had actually checked his bag or sniffed around his robes, the scent of dried blood, ointnt, and smoked at might’ve drawn suspicion. But this place wasn’t under serious watch yet. That alone told him plenty.
The first thing he did was ask for food.
A few questions tossed at a vendor and a tired mother carrying her child got him the directions he needed.
Apparently, there was only one proper restaurant in town—The Sputtering Wok. It sat just two buildings down from the central square, its roof slightly warped from heat exposure or just old age and no maintenance. Its sign hung crooked from a pair of rusted nails. But even in the dusk light, the warm orange glow from inside promised a full belly.
Han Yu stepped in, and his senses were imdiately greeted by the comforting sll of fried rice, sizzling oil, and boiled wildroot. A small spirit fire powered by a minor formation burned under a clay stove near the open kitchen, where a burly man in a grease-stained apron moved with practiced speed, tossing ladles and shouting at his assistants.
A handful of patrons were scattered about—mostly traders, dusty travelers, and the odd cultivator in common garb. Han Yu picked a corner table with his back to the wall and ordered whatever was hot.
The food arrived in a pair of chipped bowls.
Boiled green rice seasoned with herbs dried in rocksalt and seared fire potato slices slathered in a pungent garlic paste. A bowl of thick, grainy soup with floating chunks of stewed mushrooms followed soon after.
It was the best thing he had eaten in nearly a month.
He didn’t wolf it down. Instead, he savored it slowly, spoonful by spoonful, letting the heat settle in his belly and ease the tight knots in his core. His limbs, still sore from days of travel, seed to loosen with each bite.
But while his mouth was full, his ears were wide open.
Conversation buzzed around him. The kind of idle chatter that most people wouldn’t think twice about sharing in public.
"...aye, saw more of the Mist Eye people again, coming in like they own the damn hills..."
"...what are they even doing in this dust pit? Border checkpoint’s to the far west, not here..."
"...maybe they’re hunting sothing? Never seen them co through this route before in big numbers like this before..."
Han Yu sipped his soup and said nothing, eyes lowered.
They don’t know about the altar, he thought. That’s good.
If the locals were still clueless about the true purpose of the Mist Eye Sect’s presence, that ant the sect hadn’t yet solidified their influence in the region. They were still laying down roots—quietly, perhaps even secretly. That gave him ti. He had to use it wisely.
He had a few months to use after all.
As the al wound down, the rest of the restaurant’s talk slipped back into the mundane. rchant complaints. A boy stealing bread. An upcoming weather shift. A woman whose cow had sprouted a strange horn. Nothing useful.
And notably, not a single Mist Eye cultivator in sight.
He paid in silver coins and left a tip of one more, just to avoid standing out. The staff thanked him kindly. No one gave him a second look.
The inn was conveniently close—just next door, in fact.
A narrow, two-story wooden building with a faded curtain over the entrance. Cinder Rest Inn, the sign read.
User Comments
0 comments from readers