It was early afternoon, and the bazaar of Diamond City thrummed with life.

Mortals pushed through narrow alleys, bartering loudly, their laughter and shouting blending into a single chaotic rhythm. Carts creaked under sacks of ore and fabrics. Children darted between legs, chasing each other with sticky fingers and crooked smiles. The sharp glint of polished gems and trinkets shimmered under the sun's golden glare.

Diamond City was known far and wide among mortals for one thing—diamonds. From commoners to nobles, all came seeking fortune or trade. But to cultivators, it was little more than a speck on the map. A minor waypoint. Too crowded. Too noisy. Too… ordinary.

Still, it had its uses.

Sometimes, mortals stumbled across things—fragments of some treasure, weeds growing in the cracks of old ruins, broken jade slips with half-faded scripts. Useless to them. But to a trained eye, to a cultivator, these were opportunity. And so, the small sects set up shop, lording over the mortals like minor kings. Here, among the incense smoke and glittering storefronts, they played merchant and monarch alike.

In one such shop—marked only by a faded symbol of a gourd and a single yellow talisman fluttering from its awning—a lone figure stood.

He was draped in black, face half-shrouded beneath the wide brim of his traveling hat. Dust clung to the hem of his robes. He stood at the counter, silently flipping through a handwritten catalogue, each page describing the medicinal uses of various herbs and pills. A faint medicinal fragrance hung in the air, sharp with ginseng and bitter roots.

The shopkeeper, a man in his forties with sharp eyes and a careful smile, noticed him after a while. He walked over, rubbing his palms together.

"This brother must be looking for something specific?" he asked with a rehearsed warmth.

The figure didn't look up. His voice, low and hoarse, scratched out like wind scraping stone. "Emberthorn Root. Silverroot Balm. And something that can help with damaged meridians."

The shopkeeper blinked.

Silverroot Balm wasn't something common folk knew of—much less Emberthorn Root. And damaged meridians? That wasn't a phrase anyone tossed around casually. Either the man was bluffing… or he was someone with a story too long to ask about.

Still, his expression shifted into one of gleeful surprise. His smile widened.

"This must be a young master from a grand clan," he said, his tone becoming deferential. "You have quite the discerning eye, young friend. As for the items you've named—we do have the first two. but as for damaged meridians—"

Before he could finish, the man in black snapped the catalogue shut and moved to rise from his seat. His movements were slow, but deliberate.

"No need then," the figure said curtly. "The first two aren't that important."

He had barely pushed his stool back when the shopkeeper stammered and lunged forward slightly.

"No, no! Esteemed guest misunderstood. We do have something for that," he said hurriedly. "It's just… well, it's rare. And we don't usually sell it to strangers."

The man in black paused.

Then, without a word, he reached into his sleeve and tossed a small pouch onto the counter.

The sound it made—a soft thud—wasn't loud, but it was heavy with meaning.

The shopkeeper leaned forward, opened the flap … and nearly choked. The soft, unmistakable gleam of spirit stones lit up his eyes. His hands trembled ever so slightly as he quickly closed the pouch and slid it deep into his robes, his practiced smile returning with double the enthusiasm.

"Haha… young friend truly knows how to do business," he said with a small bow. "Please, wait a moment. I shall personally fetch the items."

He turned and barked an order to the back. "Renu, come! Take care of our esteemed guest."

A young woman—barely twenty, with a blue ribbon in her hair—hurried over, bowing respectfully as the shopkeeper disappeared behind a beaded curtain.

She smiled politely, gesturing to a cushion behind the counter. "Would young master like some tea while he waits?"

But the man in black gave no reply. His eyes had stayed on the catalogue, as though lost in some thought.

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The servant girl stood quietly beside the counter, hands clasped in front of her, her posture demure. But the man in black didn't spare her a glance.

His eyes lingered on the catalogue, unmoving—as if the faded ink and rough paper were the last truths in the world worth reading.

After a while, she cleared her throat lightly and stepped a bit closer. "If young master requires anything… extra, this servant is quite well-versed in customer service." Her voice was honeyed, laced with careful suggestion.

No answer. Not even a flicker of response.

The man in black didn't blink. Didn't shift. Just kept looking ahead as if he was a statue.

The girl's smile twitched. She cursed him a dozen ways in her heart, but the warmth on her lips never faltered. A proper shopgirl didn't show displeasure—especially not in front of buyers who could toss pouches like that.

And then came the noise.

A rough laugh. Heavy footsteps. The clatter of a sword hilt striking the wooden doorway.

Three men entered the shop.

The one in the centre wore a vivid blue robe, embroidered at the cuffs, and his long black hair was tied neatly with a silver clasp. His face bore a lazy arrogance, the kind earned from getting his way too often. The two who followed were dressed in dull gray, their expressions slack but alert.

As the door shut behind them, the man in blue brushed past the seated figure in black. His eyes paused. Just for a moment. A second too long.

Then he looked away and smiled—not at the mysterious customer, but at the servant girl, who immediately bowed.

"Senior Bhanu," she said, voice tight with nerves. "Master will return shortly. Please allow this servant to bring you some tea—"

She hadn't even finished before Bhanu snatched her wrist mid-bow and yanked her into his arms.

Her breath caught. The practiced smile shattered, replaced by naked fear, and though tears welled and spilled down her cheeks, she dared not make a sound.

"Why so cold?" Bhanu murmured against her ear. "Did you forget how warmly you served me last time?"

She trembled.

At that moment, the beaded curtain rustled—and the shopkeeper returned.

He carried three small lacquered boxes, stacked carefully, but he didn't react to the girl's state. Didn't even glance at her.

Instead, his face lit up as if he'd just seen royalty.

"Haha! It must be my lucky day. Senior Bhanu has graced this humble shop," he said, bowing low.

Bhanu gave a small nod, only half-listening.

The shopkeeper set the boxes on the counter before turning and, with practiced ease, handed them to the man in black.

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"They're all here, young friend," he said with a pleasant smile.

The figure didn't move. His hat still shaded his face.

"Everything?" he asked flatly.

"Of course, of course," the shopkeeper said with a humble nod.

Without a word, the figure in black tossed another pouch onto the counter. The clink this time was heavier.

Then, finally, he stood and turned.

Not a word spared for the girl. Not a glance toward Bhanu. Just a silent turn and a soundless exit.

Bhanu watched him, still holding the trembling servant close. His lips curled.

"You must've made quite the profit today, shopkeeper," he said lazily. "Haven't seen you smile that wide in years."

The shopkeeper chuckled, sliding the pouch discreetly into his sleeve. "Only because fortune favours me today. Senior Bhanu's presence alone is worth celebrating."

Bhanu's gaze drifted back to the door where the man in black had just left, a glint that narrowed like a blade catching light. "You should be careful doing business with strangers. Some might be hiding criminal backgrounds. Or worse… fleeing spies."

The shopkeeper laughed again, this time more freely. "Senior must be referring to that brat from the Evernight Sect… Aaryan, was it?" He shook his head. "That boy's long gone. No chance he'd still be lingering anywhere near sect territory. Also that brat isn't badly injured as far as we know whereas this customer was specifically looking for something for damaged meridians so I took out the Meridian Mending Pill."

Then he leaned in slightly, conspiratorially.

"As for strangers… well, cultivators are strange by nature. Many prefer the shadows. If I started doubting every quiet guest, how would I ever do business?"

Bhanu's cronies laughed on cue, nodding like fools.

But Bhanu didn't smile. His eyes were still fixed on the retreating silhouette outside—black robes brushing the dusty street, the wide-brimmed hat shielding his face as he vanished into the crowd.

There was something about that man.

Something that didn't sit right.

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Far away, In the main hall of the Evernight Sect, the atmosphere was thick with tension—like a coiled serpent, ready to strike. A hushed weight hung in the air, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Shadows stretched long beneath the dark banners, and even the flickering lanterns on either side of the dais did little to dispel the gloom.

At the centre of it all, seated upon a raised throne-like chair, Sect Leader Pryag wore his usual serene smile, his fingers laced atop his lap. On either side of him, the First, Second, and Third Grand Elders sat in silence, their expressions carved in stone. A short distance from the dais, seated on a lower platform, was an elderly man in his seventies, upright and unbowed. His snow-white beard fell neatly to his chest, and though age marked his features, his gaze was sharp enough to pierce steel.

Behind him stood four men in identical clan robes—backs straight, hands on hilts, faces barely concealing their smouldering anger.

The old man's voice cut clean through the silence. "So… by imprisoning my daughter, is the Evernight Sect declaring war on the Singh clan?"

His tone wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.

Pryag smiled gently, as if responding to a child's tantrum. "Not at all, Senior Devraj. On the contrary—your daughter aided a traitor in his escape. Does that not suggest her involvement?" He paused for effect, eyes gleaming. "Or worse… the involvement of your entire clan?"

A ripple of killing intent burst forth behind Devraj.

The youngest of the Singh clan member took half a step forward, rage flashing in his eyes—but a single wave of Devraj's hand froze them in place. No words were needed. Discipline born of bloodlines and years of training took hold.

Devraj's expression didn't change. "Do you truly believe your words alone grant you the right to act as you please, Sect Leader Pryag?" he asked, voice flat. "Last time, we gave in to keep the peace. But if you think we will tolerate this farce again—then you are gravely mistaken."

The silence afterward was cold and absolute.

Finally, the First Grand Elder spoke, his voice calm but firm. "Senior Devraj is overreacting. Grand Elder Shiela will be released once the traitor Aaryan is captured. Rather than point fingers, perhaps the Singh clan should work with us to find him."

He offered a thin smile, then clapped twice.

From a side chamber, the doors parted with a low groan.

Elder Kiyan emerged, striding calmly across the floor. Beside him walked a familiar figure—young, steady, and silent.

Vayu.

He bowed first to Devraj. "Grandfather."

Then, turning to the man who had nearly lashed out earlier, he bowed again. "Father."

He greeted the other three men by name and title with solemn respect. All five of them examined him closely, their eyes scanning every inch of his body. Only after confirming that he was unharmed did Devraj exhale, his shoulders loosening slightly.

Without another word, the old man rose to his feet. No bow. No gesture of thanks.

He turned, his cloak trailing behind him as he began walking toward the exit. The four guards followed, Vayu falling in step beside his grandfather.

At the threshold of the grand hall, Devraj paused, just long enough to deliver a final, cold remark: "You have ten days to return my daughter. If not, then what follows will not be our burden to bear."

The doors shut behind them with a heavy thud.

Pryag's smile vanished like mist.

CRACK!

He slammed his fist against the armrest of his throne, the wood splintering under the force. His eyes burned with unspoken fury.

"Second Elder," he growled, "double the bounty on Aaryan. I want every hunter, sect, and dog in this region sniffing for him."

The Second Grand Elder gave a respectful nod, already turning to pass down the order.

Pryag leaned back, eyes narrowed. "What about Dharun? Has he been found?"

The Third Elder responded with a hesitant tone. "We're close. He hasn't gone far. But… we can't conduct a large-scale search. If word spreads that two of our elders defected without cause…" He let the implication hang.

Pryag exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. "Fine. Locate Dharun. Quietly. No mistakes."

Then, after a pause, he added, "And make a trip to the Thousand Wraiths Gang."

The Third Elder blinked. "You want us to—"

"Tell their new leader to use Dharun as bait," Pryag cut in, his tone sharp. "Aaryan will come for him. And if he succeeds..."

He let the words hang, then smiled—a chill smile, thin as a blade.

"I've heard he's a monster fit for hell itself. If he delivers, I'll appoint him an Elder of the Evernight Sect."

Even the shadows in the hall seemed to flinch.

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The figure in black made no sound as it weaved through the back alleys of the city, cloak fluttering like a shadow's whisper. It paused only twice—once near a butcher's stall, once beside a sleeping drunkard—then slipped beyond the city gates with the ease of smoke curling past a flame.

Into the jungle it went, the thick canopy above swallowing moonlight whole. Twigs cracked beneath its boots, yet the figure never slowed. It moved with purpose. But just as the trees grew denser, the figure halted mid-step.

A stillness settled over the forest.

Then, he spoke.

"You know," the figure said casually, glancing around. "Where I'm from, tailing someone without buying them dinner first is considered very impolite."

Two figures froze behind a thick-rooted sal tree, then stepped out warily. They bore the same dull gray robes as the ones from earlier—the ones standing with Bhanu in the shop.

Their hands twitched near their weapons.

The man in black tilted his head. "Friends of Bhanu, I presume?"

"We're not here to talk," one of them replied gruffly. "Hand over everything you're carrying. Now."

A pause. A gust of wind whispered through the leaves.

"That's all?" the figure asked.

The tone was light—too light. And that made the hairs on the men's necks stand.

The first of them blinked. "You—"

He never finished the sentence.

In one breath, the man in black vanished. In the next, a thud echoed through the forest. One of the men collapsed, throat crushed with a single punch. The second reached for his weapon—but a hand grabbed his wrist mid-motion. There was a twist, a muffled scream—and the man crumpled beside his companion.

The man in black stood still, breathing steady, gaze cold.

A hat lay at his feet.

He crouched, dusted it off, and placed it back atop his head. But just as his fingers adjusted the brim, he froze. Something tugged at his senses.

A faint presence.

His eyes shifted to the east, where the trees parted slightly near a cluster of rocks.

There stood Bhanu, arms crossed and a mocking smile on his face.

Aaryan sighed, adjusting his hat with a wry chuckle. "I knew I should've bought one with a strap. Stylish, they said. Impractical, I said."

He took a step forward—but Bhanu turned on his heel and vanished into the woods.

"Tch." Aaryan's jaw clenched. "He's quick when it's him being hunted."

He didn't bother chasing. No need. If Bhanu had seen him, others would know soon enough.

Time was running short.

Aaryan turned and darted deeper into the jungle, weaving through roots and ravines until he reached the mouth of a small cave hidden beneath a slope of overgrown vines. The entrance had been half-concealed with branches earlier—now he pulled them aside swiftly and slipped inside.

Within, Meera lay on a makeshift bed of bundled cloth and leaves. Her skin had regained some colour, but her eyes remained shut, her breathing shallow.

Her fingers, once twitching in fever, now lay still—quiet like a child finally tired of crying.

"Still sleeping, huh?" he murmured, kneeling beside her.

He drew the yellowish pill from the box and pressed it gently between her lips. Then he followed with the two remaining herbs.

"Consider this our third relocation this week," he muttered. "At this rate, I'm going to start charging you rent."

No response.

Aaryan stared for a moment longer. Her body had stabilized. No more fever. No more trembling. But the silence around her... it felt heavier now. Not sickly—just distant. As if her mind had retreated somewhere he couldn't follow.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know, Meera... I talk to corpses less than I talk to you."

He stood, preparing to gather their scattered supplies when suddenly—

A pulse. Low, rhythmic. Not from the earth. From within.

Aaryan's hand shot to his chest. "What the hell—"

The cave dimmed for a moment as a soft, luminous glow filled the space.

And then it appeared.

Floating before him like a dream reawakened, the egg rippled in midair. A sun reborn in miniature. Its surface gleamed—not just bright, but alive. Veins of golden-red flickered and danced across its shell, shifting like embers carried by wind. Threads of flame and starlight wove through the hardened casing, casting jagged shadows across the cave walls.

Aaryan squinted, shielding his eyes. "You again…"

The egg throbbed once—gently, like a heartbeat.

He stared for a moment longer, a cocktail of awe and exasperation brewing in his chest.

Then he grumbled under his breath, lips twitching into a crooked smirk. "You know... sometimes I seriously consider making an omelette out of you."

The egg pulsed again.

Brighter.

As if it heard.

Aaryan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Great. Now it's offended. That's all I need. A sentient, glowing, cosmic egg with feelings."

He glanced toward Meera, then back at the cave entrance.

The world outside was closing in.

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