The night in Grayfog Town was heavier than the mist itself.
Here, the fog seemed to have taken root—so thick it could press sound down into the mud. Now and then, a few barks of a dog would sound, only to fray and break apart like severed threads, dissipating before they could travel far.
Shen Lan followed the mossy stone road leading down from the ruined temple, moisture clinging to his soles so that each step on the stone cracks slid with a faint hiss. Most of the town's doors were shut, and the dim yellow light seeping from behind window paper seemed guilty and tense—like pairs of eyes too afraid to look the night in the face.
Turning a corner, he stopped.
A deep, steady thud carried along the distant street, like an iron anvil being hoisted and slammed down again and again.
In the next instant, the fog was split apart by a heartbeat-like pulse of talismanic light, each droplet of mist driven into ripples as it was boiled away.
It was a Lingyun Sect night patrol—two zhang tall, puppet-shaped constructs with talisman plates floating in their chests. The talisman's etched runes swam over its surface like shoals of silver fish flashing cold light.
Each time the light pulsed, the fog recoiled, revealing the eaves of hidden houses, the shadows of walls, and the hunched silhouettes of people curled up within.
Shen Lan pressed his back against a wall, even his breath drawn in tight.
The patrol's "gaze" swept past the corner, catching on a beggar squatting beneath the eaves. The beggar lifted his head—then his entire body dispersed like fog blown apart by the wind, vanishing from the air.
The heavy footsteps receded, the fog closing in again. But the air was still stripped of warmth, a few lingering afterimages of talisman light drifting through it like cold phosphorescence. Shen Lan knew well that this aura would not fade quickly—meaning it could return at any time.
—He could not linger.
He slipped into another narrow alley, heading toward the heart of Grayfog Town. There lay the black market.
The black market had no lanterns, only fire basins that burned within the mist, their glow blooming like blood in water.
The air was thick with the mingled scents of incense powder, aged wine, medicinal herbs, blood, and damp rust. Shouts, haggling, whispers, and the sharp clink of coins striking wood wove into a dense net, sealing greed and secrets alike within.
At one stall, a skeletal-looking cultivator sold "Trace-less Short Blades," their edges thin as paper and able to slit a beast's throat without spilling a drop. Beside him, a man in a beast-bone mask traded a spirit stone for a jar of black mud—frothing with bubbles, stinking foul—said to keep spirit beasts awake for three days and nights, before their tendons and bones began to tear on the fourth.
Farther ahead, a hunched old man squatted on stone steps, cradling a bamboo cage. Inside was a child with golden, vertical pupils, curled up as quietly as a sleeping cat. In a rasping voice, he called out: "A third-tier artifact's price—raise it, and when it's grown, it'll be worth tenfold."
Shen Lan only passed by. What he sought was a blade suited for close combat.
Turning into another lane, he saw a woman seated cross-legged behind a spread cloth. In front of her lay seven or eight short blades, all bare and gleaming.
She was polishing a black knife with a strip of fine cloth, the edge catching white light. When she looked up, he noticed her eyes were a pale violet—unnaturally vivid under the red glow of the fire basin, a beauty both strange and dangerous.
"Looking to buy?" Her voice was soft, but each word was bitten off in a slow, peculiar rhythm, like the chanting of a spell.
Shen Lan picked up a blade and tested its weight—the balance leaned forward, built for explosive strikes.
"The price?"
"A price you can afford." A flash of unnaturally sharp fangs accompanied her smile. "The rule is—any blade I sell will only recognize the first person to stain it with blood."
Shen Lan didn't reply. He tossed the knife lightly into the air and caught it again, the glint of the blade in the firelight like a snake's sudden coil. He unfastened the small pouch at his waist and poured out a few spirit stones. The woman glanced once, nodded, and handed him the knife.
The moment it touched his palm, his breathing slowed, his muscles tensed slightly. A familiar scent—blood mist laced with rainwater—threaded into his nose.
He sheathed the knife and turned toward the black market's edge.
Just then, the stone road beneath his feet gave a faint tremor.
The fog swayed lightly, as if parted by something massive. The light of the fire basins flickered within the mist. From ahead came the faintest sha-sha, like bare feet brushing over grit.
Shen Lan's gaze turned cold in an instant, his hand closing around the knife's hilt.
The noise of the black market continued behind him, but he knew—something had already set its sights on him.