Chu didn't have time to react.
Ling's feet struck the ground with a familiar rhythm—steady, almost lazy. Chu relaxed, assuming it was the same predictable pace he always used when beginning a spar. But then, at the last heartbeat, Ling shifted. Drawing a deep breath drew inward. His chi surged like lightning into his legs, gathering in his calves and ankles with a hiss like wind rushing through hollow bamboo.
Chu's instincts screamedat him but it was too late.
Ling vanished from sight. A blur of motion followed—a crack of displaced air echoing like thunder.
Chu's pupils dilated as his brother reappeared in front of him in a flash, his body shimmering with chi that crackled like faint blue fire. Ling's fist came down with the force of a mountain, all his spiritual energy coalescing into a single, devastating blow.
Pain exploded across Chu's face from the impact.
Before him time seemed to shatter into pieces. The world tilted. His jaw twisted unnaturally as his head jerked sideways, and a blinding white burst filled his vision. The impact sent a shockwave that blasted dust from the stone tiles beneath them, blowing Ling's loose tunic backward in a ripple. Chu's body spiraled midair like a falling leaf caught in a storm.
The crunch of his spine against a stone wall echoed across the silent courtyard.
A muffled grunt escaped him, followed by the soft plink of a bloodied tooth skipping across the floor.
Chu collapsed, limbs slack, eyes rolled back. He was out cold.
Ling stood over him, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as if each inhale carried years of resentment. His fist still trembled, smoke coiling off the skin as residual chi burned the knuckles raw. But Ling felt nothing—only an eerie satisfaction.
A crooked grin curled on his face.
This... this had been long overdue.
For a moment, he considered stomping on Chu's unconscious face—grinding it into the ground until his rage was exhausted. But the thought passed. Barely. He exhaled and stepped back.
Above him, the illusionary dragon created by the system floated in solemn silence, its long serpentine body coiled in midair, eyes glowing faintly with judgment—or indifference. Ling wasn't sure. He didn't care.
Not yet done, he bent down and stripped Chu's outer robe and belt from his limp form. "Suffer a little more, brother," he muttered, turning on his heel and walking off into the dawn-stained streets.
The village of Sky's Reach was awakening.
Set atop terraced cliffs that overlooked emerald valleys veined with jade rivers, Sky's Reach was one of the rare villages blessed by the heavens—or cursed, depending on who you asked. Its buildings, constructed of enchanted wood and stone infused with spiritual arrays, shimmered subtly beneath the rising sun. Roofs curled like the wings of phoenixes, red lacquered tiles reflecting gold in the light.
Lanterns still flickered from the night before, casting soft glows over early morning merchants already yelling over prices. Saffron-scented buns steamed in baskets. Spirit beasts yoked to carriages stomped their hooves, tails twitching like angry cats.
Ling walked through the back alleys, avoiding the main roads. The veins of chi running beneath the village's foundation—the Spirit Grid—tingled against his feet. He had memorized these less-used routes well, for someone like him didn't often tread freely among the highborn nobles
Chi flowed silently beneath his skin as he practiced his internal circulation, calming his spirit and suppressing the thrill still buzzing in his chest.
The auction house soon came into view.
Unlike the towering pavilions in the core district, The Weeping Shallows stood to the south of the village—a six-story relic of better times, built atop the foundation of a dried-up spirit spring. Once, its floors had pulsed with elemental energy, and nobles fought to buy even the dust in its corners. But after the debt scandal of its previous master and a failed smuggling attempt involving sacred relics, the establishment fell into disgrace.
Now it leaned like a forgotten pillar against the rising tide of modernity.
Still, it held a quiet grandeur.
Its outer walls were painted in old gold, dulled by time and wind. Crimson columns lined the stairway, carved with dragons whose eyes had long since lost their luster. A great set of bronze doors bore the emblem of the crying willow, its drooping branches shaped like flowing script. Rumor had it that a spirit had once wept here—cursed by the betrayal of the auction master—and its sorrow seeped into the house's foundation.
Ling climbed the seventeen cracked steps, each one creaking softly. The guards at the front—hulking figures in dull iron armor—gave him a silent nod, already familiar with his presence.
The interior smelled of old parchment and incense. The walls were covered in fading silks bearing calligraphy from long-dead masters. Rows of private rooms lined the ground floor, intended for sellers hoping to pawn away minor heirlooms or identify the worth of junk mistaken for treasure.
This was where Ling had come, many times before, bearing stolen jewelry from the Sky Clan—gold cuffs, minor spirit paintings, trinkets that might feed him for a week or more.
But today was different.
He made his way toward the back, the faint pressure of the illusionary dragon still floating at his side. It never spoke—just hovered there like a reminder of what he had become.
A woman emerged from the upper floors.
She descended like a pale breeze, her long dress trailing behind her like mist. Her skin was porcelain, her black hair braided into loops that shimmered with faint chi. She bowed slightly.
"Young Lord Ling," she said, her voice gentle but poised. "Welcome once again to the Weeping Shallows. What would you like to auction today?"
Ling studied her carefully. She was not someone of common blood. Rumors swirled about her—that she had once belonged to a noble family, or had been a spiritual attendant exiled from the Jade Lotus Court. Whatever her story was, she had never judged him.
There was a reason Ling kept returning to this place. The Weeping Shallows accepted anything. They were as desperate as he was. And desperation, Ling knew, could build unlikely alliances.
"I'm not here to auction today," Ling said, hands in his pockets. He tilted his chin slightly, just enough to draw a reaction. "This time, I need to speak with your master."
Her eyes narrowed slightly—not with anger, but caution. "The master does not usually see—"
"I know," he interrupted. "But I think he'll want to hear what I have."
The woman studied him for a long, breathless moment. Then she gave a short nod.
"This way."