As Aryan stepped out of the Mercenary Hall, the sunlight felt different on his skin. It was the same sun, the same pale blue sky, but his perception of it had changed. Before, it was just light and warmth. Now, it was a backdrop.
The bustling market, the voices of the merchants, the laughter of children—it all seemed distant, a scene viewed through a thick pane of glass. His reality had narrowed to the piece of parchment in his hand and the cold, sharp focus of his first mission.
He didn't return home. To go back would be to invite questions he had no intention of answering. His family, especially his mother, would be horrified at the thought of him willingly walking into a nest of venomous creatures. They saw his recovery as a miracle, a blessing to be sheltered. They didn't yet understand that he saw it as a weapon to be honed.
He found a quiet alleyway, away from the prying eyes of the crowd, and called up the Supreme Store interface. The blue panel glowed softly in the shadows, its light visible only to him.
"520 SP," he murmured to himself, his eyes scanning the list of fighting techniques. His encounter with Sameer, however brief, had been informative. Brute force and a strong defense were effective against a single, arrogant opponent. But against a swarm? He would be overwhelmed. He needed a technique that could affect an area, something for crowd control.
His gaze fell once more upon [Gale Palm (Mid-Grade)]. The price was 450 SP. It was a significant investment, nearly his entire savings, but the description was too perfect to ignore. A palm strike that generated a force of wind was ideal for confined spaces where swinging a sword would be difficult. It could push back multiple small targets at once, giving him breathing room. It was the right tool for this specific job.
He took a deep breath. This was his first major expenditure. It felt more significant than buying the tempering pill. That was an investment in his foundation. This was an investment in his ability to survive.
"System, purchase Gale Palm," he commanded in his mind.
[450 SP will be deducted. Confirm purchase?]
"Confirm."
The number in the corner of his vision dropped from 520 to a meager 70. For a moment, a pang of doubt, a ghost of Amit Agrawal's cautious financial planning, surfaced. It was quickly suppressed by Aryan's cold, pragmatic resolve.
A new stream of information, different from the sacred vastness of the Scripture, flooded his mind. This wasn't a philosophical understanding of the universe—it was precise, martial knowledge. He saw diagrams of Qi pathways along his arm. He felt the necessary muscle contractions, the precise angle of the wrist, and the specific way to channel Qi from his dantian to his palm to create the desired effect. It was less like learning and more like remembering something he had practiced a thousand times. He flexed his hand instinctively, feeling the latent power coiled in his palm, waiting to be unleashed.
His new technique acquired, he set off. The Willow Creek Distillery was on the northern edge of Devgarh, where the bustling town began to fray into unkempt fields and forgotten homesteads. As he walked, the sounds of the market faded, replaced by the whisper of wind through tall grass and the creak of worn-out wood. The homes here were sparse, many showing signs of neglect—sagging roofs, crumbling stone walls, and weed-choked gardens.
He found the distillery easily. It was a large, dilapidated building that had clearly been abandoned for years. The main structure sagged in the middle, its roof a patchwork of broken tiles. The windows were boarded up, and the sign that once proudly proclaimed its name now hung from a single rusted chain, swinging mournfully in the breeze. The air around it was heavy and still, tasting of dust and decay. It smelled of dank rot, sour earth, and the faint, ghostly scent of long-evaporated spirits—a combination that felt like an intrusion in the lungs.
A man was standing near the large, padlocked front doors. He was old, his back stooped with age and weariness. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, and his hands, stained and calloused, told a story of a lifetime of labor. He looked up as Aryan approached, a mixture of hope and skepticism in his tired eyes.
"You from the Mercenary Hall?" the old man asked, his voice raspy. "You're... very young."
"My name is Aryan Rathore," Aryan stated, his tone flat. "I've taken the bounty for the cellar."