The gates of Shanliu City yawned open like the jaws of some ancient beast — carved from obsidian-hued stone and inlaid with fading murals of tiger generals, celestial monks, and forgotten wars waged across the heavens and mortal realms alike. Time had weathered the artwork, softening the sharp edges, but not the presence. Every crack whispered of age and honor, of history layered like ash.
Chen Yun stepped through without a word.
His boots touched stone warmed by sun and life — and the city greeted him, not with trumpets, but with breath.
The city breathed life in every direction.
Stone-paved streets swelled with motion. Carts groaned under the weight of silks dyed in phoenix reds and imperial golds, sacks of fire pepper gourds, bundles of copper-shelled herbs, and iron tools from mountain forges. Hawkers shouted, each louder than the last, beneath canopies of vibrant cloth:"Refining pills! Only one jade a box!""Protective talismans — blessed by the Seventh Scroll Master!""Three knives for one coin! Cut through steel, bone, and pride!"
The smell of spice, smoke, and sweat wove through the air like incense.
Children dashed between stalls, laughing, their clothes patched but bright. Monks with prayer beads debated near a tea shop where smoke curled like dragon's breath from chipped clay kettles. In the shade, sword-bearers lounged, faces shadowed, hands resting on hilts — watching.
A courier shot past, feet barely brushing the earth. Lightfoot technique, Second-Rate at best. Dust swirled in his wake, and a woman cursed after him, waving a fan like a blade.
High above, cranes circled the roofs of towering sect lodges — white against the pale blue sky. The bells of the Sky Bell Pavilion in the city's heart had not yet rung, but their silence loomed with weight.
Chen Yun moved through the chaos like water through reeds.Fluid. Calm. Invisible.
Even here, among the cacophony and color, he was unseen — or perhaps simply ignored. His cloak drifted behind him, the crimson lining flickering like dying embers whenever lanternlight touched it. His gaze did not wander. His expression never changed.
But he saw everything.
A drunk cultivator slumped beside an apothecary door, muttering about soul corrosion. A blind beggar's cane tapped a rhythm too precise for coincidence. A veiled woman's steps fell in the pattern of shadow-weaving footwork.
Shanliu was a city of noise, but its secrets whispered between the silences.
Chen Yun turned a corner, stepping out of the main artery into a side street that curled like a brushstroke — lined with stone lanterns and plum trees, their blossoms trembling gently in the breeze. The noise faded, becoming a distant hum. Here, quiet lived.
Only then did he pause.
His hand lifted to his chest. Eyes closed.
He traced the flow of Qi through his body.
The meridians pulsed — fractured veins of light beneath skin and bone. The fight on the mountain had taken more than it should have.
Forty percent.
That was all it took — yet all it cost.
His Qi had not scattered, but the damaged pathways refused full circulation. He had compressed each technique to perfect silence and execution, but the burden after was clear. His breath came slow. Even his heartbeat beat a fraction heavier.
He exhaled softly.
"Still a crippled blade," he thought. "Sharpened, not mended."
But it wasn't exhaustion that brought the ache behind his eyes.
It was memory.
His gaze lifted to the distant center of the city — to the Sky Bell Pavilion. Built atop a crescent-shaped cliff of white stone, the tower soared into the clouds, its bronze bell visible even now, silent against the sky. It rang once every hour, marking the pulse of the sects, the rhythm of the city.
And once, it had rung for a child.
[Flashback Begins]
He had stood there, barely tall enough to reach his Master's elbow. His robes were too big. His feet hurt from walking.
But his eyes had shone.
"Master! Look! They're balancing on swords — those men on the roof!"
His Master had not turned. His voice was quiet, clipped like a blade just sheathed."Windwalkers. Third-Rate light step technique. Impressive to fools. Common to those who train."
"And that smell — what is that?!"
"Grilled lotus root. Your stomach is louder than your senses."
"That tower! Are they flying kites from it?"
His Master had finally glanced at the pavilion."No. Soul Lanterns. Messages between sects."
He had stared, wide-eyed.
"Will I train here, Master? Will I wear robes like them?"
Silence.
Then a single hand rested on his head, light as falling ash."If you survive long enough."
The boy had gone still.
Then the bell had rung — low, deep, infinite.
It filled his bones. Echoed in his heart.He had looked up, breathless.
This is the center of the world, he had thought.
[Flashback Ends]
Chen Yun opened his eyes.
The bell did not ring.
Only the clatter of hooves, the smell of spice and sweat, the low hum of rising dusk.
"I was naïve," he thought. "But I was alive."
He began to walk again.
Past a young sword disciple polishing his blade beside a master who slept with one eye open. Past an old nun etching talismans under a banyan tree with shaking hands and calligraphy better than monks half her age. Past a masked man buying incense with bloodstained coins.
The city did not see him.
But he saw it.
And he felt it.
The Qi beneath Shanliu was dense. Pressurized. This city was not just a home — it was a cauldron. Dozens of sects, clans, rogue cultivators, alchemists, bounty hunters, and assassins — all packed within walls of stone and history. Every smile carried calculation. Every deal was a duel without weapons.
He passed familiar names:The Jade Lantern Sect.The Stone Heart Hall.The Wandering Ink Guild.
They pulsed like scars on the city's surface.
He turned west, away from the golden avenues and crimson lanterns, toward the city's older quarter — where the stone darkened, and the walls grew close. Here, inns were quiet, and rooms were cheap. Cultivators came here to vanish, not shine.
His body needed rest.
His mind needed silence.