Chapter 5: Quiet Transactions
Morning crept into the city slowly, light slipping through narrow streets and cracked shutters. The assassin woke before dawn, body stiff, senses alert. Habit dragged him from sleep long before comfort ever could. He lay still, listening, counting footsteps beyond the thin walls, memorizing the rhythm of the inn.
Nothing felt wrong.
He rose and moved through the basic footwork the system had given him, slow and controlled. Each step barely touched the floor. The improvement was undeniable. Even injured, he was quieter than before, more precise. When he finished, sweat clung to his skin, and the qi inside him pulsed faintly, responding to exertion.
He cleaned himself with cold water, changed into plain clothes taken from one of the dead men, and concealed his weapons beneath loose fabric. Identity was danger. Plainness was armor.
Outside, the city was waking.
Stalls opened one by one. Smoke rose from cookfires. The smell of steamed grain and broth drifted through the air. He blended into the flow of people, head down, posture unremarkable.
The notice board lay ahead.
He stopped only long enough to confirm the address for the wolf fang exchange, then moved on. The building was tucked behind a row of warehouses near the eastern market, its sign unmarked, its door half-rotted. The kind of place that dealt in things better left unnamed.
He entered without knocking.
Inside, shelves lined the walls, cluttered with jars, bones, dried herbs, and scraps of beast parts. The air smelled sharp and bitter. A man sat behind a low counter, thin and bald, eyes like dull coins.
"What do you want?" the man asked.
"Trade," the assassin replied.
The man's gaze flicked over him, assessing. "Show."
The assassin placed the wrapped fang on the counter and unfolded the cloth. The curved tooth gleamed faintly, qi residue still clinging to its surface.
The man's eyes widened briefly before narrowing again. "Shadowfang wolf," he said. "Fresh."
"Yes."
"Five stones," the man said slowly. "But I pay four."
The assassin met his gaze. "Five."
Silence stretched.
The man smiled thinly. "You're injured. You don't have leverage."
The assassin leaned forward slightly. The faint killing intent he released was controlled, precise, gone almost as soon as it appeared. The man's smile vanished.
"Five," the assassin repeated.
The man swallowed. He reached beneath the counter and placed five dull gray stones on the wood. Low-grade spirit stones. Weak, but valuable.
"Pleasure," the man muttered.
The assassin wrapped the stones, took them, and left without another word.
Outside, the city felt different now. Lighter. Resources meant options. Options meant survival.
He did not linger.
He spent the morning moving through markets and alleys, purchasing necessities in small amounts from different vendors. Food. A whetstone. Simple medicine. Nothing that drew attention. He memorized faces, routes, blind spots.
By noon, he felt it.
Eyes.
Not fixed. Not obvious. But present.
He adjusted his pace, turning into a crowded street, then doubled back through an alley thick with hanging cloth. The sensation followed. Patient. Professional.
Not common thugs.
He entered a teahouse near the market's edge and took a seat near the back. Steam rose from cups. Voices overlapped. He waited.
Moments later, two men entered. Plain clothes. Average builds. Their eyes scanned the room briefly before settling into practiced indifference.
Hunters.
The organization moved faster than expected.
He sipped tea slowly, forcing calm. Panic would kill him faster than any blade.
The men sat separately. One near the door. One closer to the counter. A net.
He finished the tea and stood, weaving toward the exit. As he passed the nearer man, he stumbled deliberately, knocking the cup into the man's lap.
"Watch where you're going," the man snapped.
"Apologies," the assassin said quietly.
As he bowed, his fingers brushed the man's sleeve, slipping a spirit stone into the folds of fabric. The man stiffened.
The assassin straightened and walked out.
Behind him, raised voices erupted.
"What is this?"
"Idiot, are you trying to get us killed?"
He did not listen further.
By the time they realized what had happened, he was already gone.
He returned to the inn by a longer route, circling twice before entering. The city had teeth. He could not afford complacency.
Inside his room, he sat and focused inward.
[Mission progress: Foothold established.]
The system's presence stirred.
[Evaluation: Resource acquisition successful.]
The qi inside him responded to the spirit stones resting nearby, drawn to them like thirst to water. He took one and held it, following the faint guidance forming in his mind.
The stone crumbled slowly as energy flowed into him.
Pain followed.
His channels burned, narrow and underdeveloped, straining to contain the influx. He clenched his jaw, breathing steadily, refusing to stop. Sweat poured from his skin as the warmth intensified, coiling deeper in his core.
Minutes passed. Then more.
The pain eased.
[Qi circulation stabilized.]
[Cultivation improved.]
He exhaled shakily.
Progress was slow. But it was real.
A memory surfaced—his mother counting coins at night, fingers trembling as she tried to make them last. The shame in her eyes when she handed him over, believing it was mercy.
He crushed the remaining stone in his fist, drawing its energy in.
"I'll never be poor again," he whispered.
Outside, a bell rang, signaling the closing of one market gate. Evening shadows stretched across the city.
He stood, adjusting his clothes, expression hardening.
The organization had sent feelers. Next would come blades.
He welcomed them.
Because now, he was no longer just running.
He was preparing.