The next morning bloomed with the rustle of movement. The air in the small house was thick with the scent of dried earth and woven reeds, a stark contrast to the lingering chill of the night. Qing Chen was already up, a thin, reedy figure hunched over an array of sacks. The coarse canvas bags were bulging with gnarled roots that looked like skeletal fingers and bundles of cracked, brittle herbs that crumbled at the touch.
"Mistress Enari'll dock us if we're late," Qing Chen muttered, his voice low and slightly strained. He wasn't speaking directly to Dao Wei, who lay on the floor mat, but rather voicing the constant anxiety that seemed to hum beneath his skin. His arms, slender and unmuscled, visibly tensed as he wrestled a particularly heavy sack, dragging it closer to the door. "Try not to look like a ghost today, yeah? Just... be present."
Dao Wei offered no verbal response. He simply pushed himself up from the mat in a single liquid motion. His body moved with an economy of effort, already adapting, settling into the rhythm of this new, demanding existence. It was as if some ancient, buried memory within his bones knew exactly how to anchor itself in this raw, physical world. He walked over to the largest bundle Qing Chen had struggled with and, without a word or a change in his calm expression, effortlessly slung it over his shoulder. The weight, which had made Qing Chen grunt and strain, seemed negligible to him, a mere shift in balance. The simple act, performed with such casual strength, drew a quick, sidelong glance from Qing Chen, a flicker of something unreadable, surprise, maybe grudging respect, perhaps just weary acceptance.
The path sloped downward in a series of uneven turns, packed earth broken by loose stones and shallow ruts where rainwater once carved its way through. Qing Chen led, careful with his footing, though his steps were not hesitant. He walked as someone who knew every rise and dip by memory.
"Don't step there," he said over his shoulder. "That stone shifts. Twisted my ankle on it last winter. Couldn't work for three days. Lost two ration tokens because of it."
Dao Wei adjusted his stride, avoiding the spot. "You remember things like this very clearly."
"You have to," Qing Chen replied. "Here, small mistakes cost more than they should."
They continued down. A few low houses came into view, their roofs patched with mismatched tiles and wooden planks.
"The village center's past that bend," Qing Chen went on. "That's where the traders stop when they come down from the western route. Not the big caravans, mind you. Just the small ones. Salt, dried roots, sometimes cloth if we're lucky."
"How often?" Dao Wei asked.
"Once every ten, twelve days. If the roads aren't blocked by bandits. Or storms." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Or if the merchants decide it's not worth the trouble."
"And ration tokens?" Dao Wei said. "You mentioned them earlier."
Qing Chen nodded. "Issued by the local steward. Grain, oil, and sometimes meat. Enough to live, not enough to save. If you miss a work quota, you lose a portion. If you get injured…" He trailed off, then shrugged. "Well, you find a way."
They passed a narrow side path.
"Shortcut to the lower fields," Qing Chen said. "Faster, but the slope's bad. Old Lin fell there last year. Broke his leg. The steward marked him unfit and cut his share in half."
Dao Wei glanced at the path, then back at Qing Chen. "And the people in charge?"
"Steward Han manages the tokens. Elder Wu handles disputes. Merchant Zhao controls most of the outside trade. If you want something to move in this village, you go through one of them." He hesitated. "Or you learn how to stay invisible."
Dao Wei's eyes swept over the clustered homes, the thin smoke rising from cooking fires, the distant figures moving slowly under the morning sun. "You've thought about all this."
Qing Chen's grip tightened on the strap of his worn satchel. "You don't survive here without thinking. Or without hoping something changes." He straightened, as if catching himself. "Anyway… the market's just ahead."
They rounded the bend. The village center opened before them, small and dusty, but alive with muted voices and the clatter of daily exchange.
Dao Wei said nothing for a moment. He simply took it in, the terrain, the people, the quiet struggle woven into every movement. Then he nodded once, as if filing it all away.
"I see," he said softly.
The village center was not the bustling, vibrant heart one might imagine. It was a rough, exposed clearing, brutal in its simplicity. There was no sign of polished stone or crafted pathways, only packed earth bleached bone-white in patches by past seasons' refuse. Tents of faded, patched canvas stood stoically, supported by iron poles that showed rust like weeping scars. Wagons, heavy and crude, were piled high with rough-hewn ore that glinted dully, or bundles of talismans carved from cheap wood and bone, their sigils smudged and uneven.
The air here was thick with the mingled scents of dust, sweat, cured hides, and the peculiar, pungent aroma of dried herbs and processed fungi. The dominant energy was that of the women who ran most of the stalls. They were a formidable presence, scarred, lean, their faces etched with hardship and resilience. Their clothing was practical: patched robes of rough spun fabric or sturdy leather wraps, often showing signs of considerable wear and repair. They bartered fiercely, their voices sharp and uncompromising as they traded spiritual salt, minute filings of cheap jade, bags of fungus powder that smelled vaguely of decay, and preserved sinew from various beasts. This was the currency of survival, exchanged with a wary intensity.
Amidst this matriarchal hub of activity, a few men drifted between the stalls. They were a stark contrast: hunched, silent, moving with a defeated air. They were chained, often in pairs, the heavy iron collars around their necks glinting dully. These collars were not just metal; they were burned with sigils directly into the flesh beneath, a brand of ownership and subjugation. Their eyes rarely met anyone's, fixed somewhere on the dusty ground.
The clearing buzzed with low voices and the clink of chains, the sound of trade and quiet labor blending into a constant murmur. Dao Wei had barely taken a dozen steps in before he felt it, the way conversations faltered, then resumed more softly. He did not look around immediately. He simply walked, the bundle on his shoulder, his pace even.
Two women near a grain stall leaned toward each other.
"That's him," one whispered. "Came from the western shore. From the direction of the Demon Sea."
"The sea that swallows ships?" the other murmured, eyes flicking briefly toward Dao Wei before dropping again. "No one crosses that unless they mean to die… or unless they're from Aruna."
A third woman, older, her hair bound with copper rings, snorted softly. "Aruna or not, look at his clothes. Clean. Woven tight. No village loom makes cloth like that."
"Maybe a merchant's son?" the second suggested.
The first shook her head. "Merchants don't walk alone. And they don't walk like that."
Nearby, a pair of chained men paused in their work, iron collars glinting in the sun. One of them, broad-shouldered despite the weight of the chain, spoke under his breath.
"He's not a slave."
His companion glanced sideways. "How can you tell?"
"Slaves keep their eyes low. Their backs bent. This one walks like the ground owes him space."
At the edge of the clearing, an elderly storyteller sat beneath a weathered canopy, his voice rasping as he addressed a small group of children. He had been speaking of the Nine Kingdoms when his gaze drifted toward Dao Wei.
"…and beyond the Demon Sea lies Aruna," he continued slowly, as if choosing his words with care. "The Ninth Kingdom. The only land where men still rule their own houses, they say. Where bloodlines pass from father to son, not mother to daughter. A strange place, cut off by storms and mist, and by the will of the sea itself."
One of the children tugged at his sleeve. "Is he from there, Grandfather?"
The old man studied Dao Wei's retreating back. "Perhaps. Or perhaps he has merely walked a road no one here dares to take."
Two guards of Kar'ta stood near a stone post, spears resting against their shoulders. One of them frowned.
"Should we stop him? Ask his name?"
The other shook her head. "The Queen gave no order. And if he truly came from across the Demon Sea… better to watch than to provoke."
"Men here don't get such freedom," the first muttered.
"Men here aren't usually untouched by dust and fear," the second replied.
A trader arranging jars of salt lowered his voice as Dao Wei passed. "They say the Immortal Island still follows the old ways. Kings, princes, sons who inherit. Not like us, where blood flows through the mother's line, and men are… replaceable."
His customer glanced at Dao Wei. "Then what would a man of status from such a place be doing in Kar'ta?"
The trader's lips curved faintly. "Who knows? Messengers walk before wars. Envoys before treaties. And sometimes… exiles before storms."
Dao Wei heard none of these words clearly, yet the tone of the clearing had shifted around him, like a current parting around a stone. No one blocked his path. No one ordered him to kneel. The women's voices softened. The guards did not move. Even the chained men watched him with something like quiet wonder.
In Aratta, where lineage flowed through women and men were born to labor, to serve, to be traded or bound, such unspoken deference was rare.
And it followed him, step by step, through the dust of the clearing, carried on whispers of the Demon Sea, of the Ninth Kingdom, and of a world that did not bend in the same way this one had learned to bend.
Qing Chen nudged his head towards a slightly raised dais constructed from rocks and packed earth at one edge of the clearing. Overseeing the market from this vantage point was Mistress Enari. She was the embodiment of the village's hard-won authority, her presence radiating an unyielding sharpness. Her eyes were narrow slits beneath a thick, fur-lined headwrap, missing nothing of the activity below. Her left hand, resting on her knee, was missing three fingers, a visible testament to either a past conflict or a harsh penalty. Her voice, when she raised it, cut through the market din, sharp and commanding, as she yelled at two young boys who had clumsily spilled a sack of dried mushrooms onto the dusty ground.
When her gaze swept over Qing Chen approaching, she offered a brief, almost dismissive nod. But then her eyes settled on Dao Wei walking beside him, and her expression visibly hardened. The narrow slits seemed to narrow further, her lips tightening.
"New stray?" she asked Qing Chen, her voice carrying clearly across the space, yet directed solely at the boy, as if Dao Wei himself were invisible or unworthy of direct address.
Qing Chen swallowed, the sound audible in the sudden tension that radiated from the dais. "He helps," he mumbled, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground before her. "He doesn't talk much."
Mistress Enari gave a short, humourless huff. "Good. Men shouldn't."
She turned then, her movement decisive, her attention already shifting back to the broader management of the market, without another word or a single glance back at Dao Wei.
Dao Wei remained utterly still, his expression neutral, his gaze calm. He didn't respond to her dismissal, didn't flinch at her harsh words. Unknown to them, he had been listening to everything, not just Qing Chen's practical details, but the snippets of conversation, the vendor calls, the underlying anxieties, and the implicit social structure. He had already learned much simply by observing and processing. Aratta wasn't a single, monolithic entity but a complex tapestry. Nine kingdoms existed, nominally under the rule of the Khatan, the ultimate sovereign, but each governed by different Queens. Immortal Aruna, the ninth kingdom, was the enigmatic exception, separated by the demon sea and its distinct social order. This very village, he now understood, was just one small node in the vast network surrounding the Kingdom of Kar'ta, subject to its Queen, who in turn answered to the distant Khatan in the Imperial Kingdom Aratta. He absorbed it all, the rules, the rulers, the geography of power, the hidden assumptions.
Later, while Qing Chen was engrossed in the delicate, tense negotiation for a small portion of fungus cakes and some salted bone broth, essentials for their meager meals, Dao Wei quietly detached himself from the periphery of the stall. He moved with that same effortless grace, slipping away towards a shaded corner near the old, cracked well that stood stoically in the center of the clearing. It was a place the others seemed to avoid, a pocket of stillness amidst the muted activity.
Leaning against the rough stone lip of the well was a man. He was clearly dying. His body was emaciated, his cheeks sunken, and a network of dark, seemingly swollen veins spread like black ink up his neck and across his face. This was the unmistakable mark of spiritual poisoning, the slow, agonizing death that often resulted from failed ore refinement or exposure to corrupted spiritual energies deep underground. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and ragged.
As Dao Wei crouched beside him, the man's eyelids fluttered open. His gaze, though clouded with pain, held a flicker of awareness, perhaps sharpened by his proximity to death.
"You're not from here," the man rasped, his voice a dry whisper that seemed to scrape against the air.
Dao Wei simply stood there, silent, his calm presence a stark contrast to the man's suffering. He didn't confirm or deny, simply observed.
The miner managed a weak, rattling chuckle that turned into a cough, a thin string of blood staining his lips. "Smart," he wheezed. "Most Outsiders... they stride in like heroes, expecting to change everything. You... you're different." He coughed again, more violently this time. "I was a spiritual seer once... before the Blue Rot took my core. Saw things others couldn't... felt the currents beneath the surface."
From his storage ring, a subtle shimmer at his fingertip that no one in the bustling market would notice, Dao Wei drew out a single pill. It was small, spherical, and radiated a faint, pure spiritual energy, a mid-grade spiritual pill, something of immense value in a place like this, potentially capable of easing suffering, if not curing the terminal rot. He palmed it discreetly, ensuring no one else saw the transaction, then gently pressed it to the miner's cracked lips. The old man's eyes widened slightly in surprise, a fleeting question in their depths, before instinct took over. He swallowed the pill, a soft groan escaping him as the restorative energy began its slow, agonizing work against the pervasive poison.