The ripples from Aryan's brief clash with Sameer Sharma spread through the market with the speed of rumor. As he walked away from the stunned Sharma heir, he felt a distinct shift in the atmosphere around him. It was a subtle, yet palpable change. The din of the crowd seemed to quiet wherever he went.
Merchants who had previously ignored him now watched him with wary, calculating eyes.
The path before him, once a chaotic sea of people, now cleared with a deference that was entirely new.
He was no longer invisible. In a small town like Devgarh, news traveled fast, and the public humiliation of a Sharma by a Rathore was headline news. They didn't know the details, only the result: Sameer on the ground, and Aryan walking away untouched. To them, the "trash" son of the Rathore family had suddenly grown teeth. Aryan cataloged their reactions fear, curiosity, respect as more data points. In this world, strength was a shield and a key. It deflected scorn and unlocked deference.
He arrived at the Central Market Square, the commercial heart of Devgarh. Here, the stalls were more numerous and varied. The air was thick with the scent of medicinal herbs, the metallic tang of a blacksmith's forge, and the musky smell of cured animal hides. He walked slowly, his senses taking everything in.
A stall to his left was selling "Spirit Herbs." He saw bundles of common Sun-Kissed Grass and a few gnarled roots of Ironbark, both used in basic healing salves. The quality was poor, the Qi within them faint and scattered. He mentally cross-referenced them with the Supreme Store. The store was offering "Pristine Sun-Kissed Grass" for 20 SP per stalk, with an energy signature at least ten times more potent.
The herbs here were trash, yet the merchant was asking for a handful of silver coins for a single, withered stalk. The exchange rate was abysmal. It was a broken economic model, ripe for exploitation by someone with a better supply chain.
He passed a weaponsmith's stall. Crude iron swords and axes were displayed on a worn leather sheet. They were heavy, poorly balanced, and devoid of any spiritual energy.
They were tools for farmers and guards, not cultivators. He thought of the Star-Shatterer Sword in the store, a weapon that could cleave mountains, and a cold smile touched his lips.
The gap between his potential and his current reality was a chasm, but it was one he now had a bridge to cross.
His casual exploration was a form of reconnaissance. He was mapping the economic landscape of his new world, understanding the value of things. But this open market was for the common folk. He needed to find where the cultivators did their business.
His eyes scanned the square and settled on a building that stood out from the shabby stalls and modest shops. It was a two-story structure of dark, sturdy wood and grey stone, with no windows on the ground floor and a plain, unadorned sign hanging over the door. The sign depicted a sword and an axe crossed over a shield. Beneath it, three words were carved in bold script: The Mercenary Hall.
This was it. This was a place where strength was the only currency that truly mattered.
Taking a steadying breath, Aryan pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The chaotic noise of the market was instantly muffled, replaced by a thick, oppressive atmosphere. The air, heavy with the smell of stale ale, sweat, and cheap pipe-weed, was like a physical presence. The low murmur of conversation, punctuated by the sharp clink of mugs, sounded more like the grumblings of beasts in their den than friendly chatter.
The interior was dim, lit by a few glowing Spirit Stones embedded in the ceiling beams. The main room was a large, open hall filled with rough-hewn wooden tables and benches, most of which were occupied by men and women who looked far more dangerous than the farmers and merchants outside. They wore hardened leather armor, and steel weapons leaned against their tables. Their gazes were sharp, their bodies honed by battle. They were mercenaries, hunters, and adventurers the underbelly of the cultivation world.
A few heads turned as Aryan entered. They saw a slim youth in plain clothes, and most dismissed him immediately, turning back to their drinks. But a few of the more discerning individuals narrowed their eyes, sensing the quiet, steady aura that was at odds with his youthful appearance.
Aryan ignored the stares and walked toward the back of the hall. There, taking up almost the entire wall, was a massive wooden board covered with dozens of pieces of parchment.
The Bounty Board.