Ren didn't waste any time.
Once he confirmed that caravans regularly traveled from Azure Fern Village to Iron Wind City, he acted immediately. The routes weren't public knowledge, but anyone who watched closely enough could figure it out. Goods moved in and out, and while not every merchant was brave enough to head in that direction, there were always a few willing to take the risk.
He waited until he saw a smaller caravan getting ready to depart—four carts, lightly guarded, but clearly prepared for the long road. He approached quietly and offered a few coins. Nothing excessive, just enough to not seem suspicious.
The merchant didn't ask questions.
None of them did.
At this time of year, anyone traveling alone in the direction of Iron Wind City—especially with their face covered and no family or goods in tow—was either trouble, insane, or heading to the Bloodblade Sect.
No one wanted to know which.
It was easier not to ask. Safer, too. People who tried to join an evil sect like Bloodblade were either desperate or dangerous. Probably both. Not the type of people you made conversation with unless you had to. You certainly didn't poke into their business.
Ren appreciated that.
He said nothing during the journey, keeping to himself at the back of the last cart. The driver barely looked at him, and the guards were more interested in watching the road than exchanging pleasantries.
The trail to Iron Wind City passed through long stretches of forest. The path was worn but narrow, and occasionally curved around low ridges or wound between hills. Trees flanked the roads in dense walls, casting broken shadows across the dirt. In another place, this kind of road would've been prime territory for robbers.
But here, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
Ren listened carefully to the merchants talking up ahead. They weren't loud, but in the silence of the road, he could hear enough.
"No robbers these days," one muttered. "Used to be, but not anymore."
"Of course not," another replied. "Who the hell's stupid enough to rob caravans near Bloodblade's doorstep? You get caught, they don't just kill you. They carve you up. Use you for something."
"Someone tried last season," a third chimed in. "Young gang, thought they could ambush a spice cart. They weren't even evil cultivators. Just desperate types."
"What happened?"
"Bodies showed up strung from trees, drained. No one touched the route since."
The others went quiet after that.
Ren didn't react. He just kept his head low, eyes under the shade of the hat, hands tucked in his sleeves.
That sort of deterrent explained why the region was surprisingly safe for travel, despite being under the shadow of an evil sect. People feared Bloodblade—not just the sect itself, but the rumors surrounding it. And for once, that fear worked in favor of the merchants.
It didn't mean the caravans were reckless. They still brought guards, still traveled in numbers, but they didn't hesitate to pass through the region either. When another merchant asked why they continued to use this road despite the danger, the caravan master gave a short, blunt answer.
"The Merchant Association pays good money. A few coins at the right gates, and the sect looks the other way."
It wasn't exactly a formal arrangement. Just the kind of quiet understanding that often grew between power and profit. Evil sects didn't police the roads out of kindness. But they tolerated trade. Allowed it. So long as it didn't interfere with their internal business.
As the carts continued on, Ren occasionally noticed other travelers moving along different caravans in the distance—young, quiet, and alone. Dressed in similar plain robes. No one looked at each other. No one talked. But even without speaking, the atmosphere made it obvious.
They were all going the same way.
To Bloodblade.
It made sense. Evil sects didn't hold recruitment drives or public ceremonies. They didn't send out announcements or invitations. If you wanted to join, you went to them. That was it.
Ren kept to himself the entire journey.
There was nothing to say.
He'd heard enough. The region was dangerous for some, safe for others. And people like him—those aiming for the sect—existed in a strange space between threat and caution. The caravans didn't want trouble. So they didn't ask questions. They accepted the coins, let him aboard, and didn't look twice.
That was fine.
That was exactly what he wanted.
By the time the road began to bend toward the low ridges marking the outskirts of Iron Wind's territory, Ren had already taken note of the terrain, the placement of guards, and the handful of others who seemed to be heading the same way.
It wasn't a welcome.
It was a threshold.
And finally after what seemed long time, in the distance, he could see it—vague and hazy against the horizon, but unmistakable.
The outline of a city.
The path ahead was open.
From a quiet village to a bustling city, the world was unfolding.