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The mortals of the village knelt in gratitude before the master alchemist who had cured them. They say she rose into the sky and vanished among the clouds. Source: Unknown.
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The moon was high above the darkened valley, a sliver of silver from the moon above cutting through the thick blanket of night. The stars blinked faintly, smothered by drifting clouds and the thin smoke of distant campfires. Song Ming walked alone, his sandals pressing softly against the packed dirt path that led out of the sleeping village. The crickets hummed and the mountain breeze whispered through the valley.
Ahead, the merchant camp glowed faintly—a constellation of lanterns scattered across the open field. Banners fluttered lazily in the wind, painted with the crimson sigil of the Golden Trading Merchants. The traders had pitched their tents in neat rows, each guarded by men in fine armor and gleaming spears. Their polished metal reflected the flickering firelight, glinting like starlight upon steel.
Song Ming adjusted his robe, exhaled deeply, and muttered under his breath,
"I hope this will work out in the end."
He clutched a small pouch of silver close to his chest—not as a bribe, but as a gesture of sincerity. The matter tonight was too important to leave to chance.
As he neared the main tent, two guards straightened, crossing their halberds before him. Their armor bore intricate patterns of gold and the faint sheen of spiritual energy, telling of wealth and perhaps light cultivation training.
Song Ming bowed with both hands. "I am Song Ming. I have come to speak with Master Bai on a matter of importance."
The guards exchanged a glance. They recognized him as Song Xuan's relative, and perhaps as someone who had greeted Master Bai before. After a moment, one of them turned toward the tent flap.
"Master Bai," he called softly. "A villager wishes to speak. Calls himself Song Ming."
A brief silence. Then a deep, measured voice came from within, smooth yet commanding.
"Let him in."
The guards stepped aside and lifted the flap. Warm air rushed out, carrying with it a fragrance of sandalwood, spiced wine, and the faintest whiff of incense—foreign scents that did not belong to this humble land.
Song Ming entered.
Inside, the tent was unlike anything he had imagined. Its vast interior glowed with golden lamplight, reflected from silken curtains and rugs woven with silver threads. Carved chests, porcelain jars, and jade trinkets gleamed from every corner. The air was heavy with refinement, as though this were not a mere traveling tent but a fragment of some noble's residence brought to the wilderness.
In the center sat Master Bai, reclining in a wide chair draped with furs.
He was a man in his fifties, though his face betrayed little of age. His hair, tied neatly in a golden clasp, was streaked with silver. His eyes were sharp and calculating, their dark pupils seeming to weigh and measure everything before him. His robe shimmered under the lamplight—a fine blend of silk embroidered with cloud patterns.
Even seated, there was an aura about him: not quite that of a noble, not that of a warrior either, but something in between—a man who wielded wealth as others wielded swords.
Master Bai set down the scroll he had been reading and raised his gaze.
"What brings you here, Song Ming?"
Song Ming bowed low. "Master Bai, forgive the intrusion at this late hour. I come not for trade, but to discuss a matter of the utmost importance."
Master Bai gestured lazily toward the seat across from him. "Sit, then. Speak plainly."
Song Ming hesitated before sitting. The cushions beneath him were impossibly soft, stuffed with something finer than wool. His hands tightened slightly.
"There are two children in our village," he began carefully, "who have shown the rare ability to absorb qi."
Master Bai's brows rose slightly. "Qi, you say? In your village?"
"Yes. I have looked at them myself. When meditating, their breathing aligns with the natural flow of qi. Both of them can even sense the warmth in the spiritual core."
Master Bai sipped from his porcelain cup, expression unreadable. "Interesting. But why tell me this? You seek a buyer for your 'prodigies'?"
Song Ming stiffened. "No, never! They are children of our people. I only wish to give them a chance. They cannot continue here, training blindly without guidance. I hoped… you might know when the sects will come seeking disciples again."
Master Bai leaned back, his gaze drifting to the tent ceiling. For a moment, silence filled the air.
Finally, he spoke.
"You are unlucky, Song Ming. When I left Moondragon City, the sects had just completed their selection. I even saw the carriages of the Thunderforge Sect, Soulrend Valley and Golden Lotus Sect leaving the city. A few of them found remarkable talents this year."
Song Ming's heart sank. "Then… it's over for now?"
Master Bai nodded faintly. "For now. Such selections happen rarely—every few years, when the sects send out their inner disciples to test new blood. Tell me, how old are these children?"
"Nine."
"Mmm." Bai waved his hand dismissively. "Nine is young, but not exceptional. The sects prefer those who awaken early. At twelve, the window narrows compared to everyone else, though it does not mean they cannot cultivate, it would just be difficult for them to be noticed then."
Song Ming clenched his fists on his knees, voice trembling with restraint.
"Perhaps. But they have ambition. Both of them dream of leaving this place, of walking the path of cultivation. Should that not count for something?"
Master Bai smiled faintly. "Dreams are cheap, my friend. Every starving boy dreams of the sword. Every sick girl dreams of immortality. The heavens do not open for all."
Song Ming looked down, the shadows of the lamplight stretching across his face. "Still… I must try."
Master Bai's gaze softened just a touch. He swirled the wine in his cup thoughtfully. "If you must know, the next selection will be in three years time. The sects will once again send their envoys to Moondragon City. By then, those children will be around twelve years old, yes?"
"Yes."
"That will make it harder for them. Unless they cultivate some foundation before then, the sects will overlook them entirely."
Song Ming nodded grimly. "Then I must prepare them. Three years will have to be enough."
The merchant laughed—a rich, amused sound. "Prepare them? And how will you do that? You, a village man with no sect, no manuals, no spirit stones?"
Song Ming looked up. "I have nothing else to give them but effort. If that's not enough, then I'll find another way."
Master Bai studied him for a long while. The man's sincerity was a rare thing. Finally, he sighed and set his cup down.
Master Bai reached into a chest beside him and withdrew a small book. He placed it on the table. "This was left behind by a guest of mine, an outer disciple of the Golden Windblade Sect. It holds a simple breathing technique—low-grade, but authentic. With this, the children may begin true cultivation. It will cost you two hundred silver''
Song Ming's eyes widened. "Master Bai… I cannot afford this.."
Master Bai leaned back in his chair, his expression untouched by pity. "Then you cannot afford to change their fate."
The tent was suddenly very quiet.
Song Ming looked down at the book. The air around it seemed heavier, as if it carried the weight of countless possibilities—hope, despair, and everything between. His breath came slow and uneven.
"Two hundred silver…" he repeated softly. His hand trembled slightly as he reached toward his robe and drew out the small pouch he had brought. He loosened the string and poured the contents into his palm.
A few dull silver coins fell onto the table with a muted clink. Not even twenty.
Master Bai didn't even glance at them. He sipped his wine and said casually, "You insult the art by showing me that."
"I… I do not mean disrespect," Song Ming said hurriedly. His voice cracked with emotion. "It is all I have. I came here because… because they deserve more than this place...
Song Ming eventually left the tent, shoulders heavy, the night wind cutting into his thoughts. The dim light from the merchant camp flickered behind him as he trudged toward the village.
Halfway down the road, a group of villagers stood waiting. They didn't say much, only pressed a small pouch into his palm. The clinking sound inside made his heart tighten.
A little later, Song Ming turned back toward the camp. He pushed open the tent flap, marched straight to the table, and slammed down the pouch. Silver coins scattered across the polished wood.
"Two hundred silver," he said, his voice steady.
Master Bai raised an eyebrow, surprise flickering in his eyes before it turned into a smile.
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End of chapter 11 - The Merchant's Price