After two and a half hours of silent travel, the land began to change.
The forest thinned, dense trees giving way to packed dirt roads and low, cultivated fields. The air smelled different here—woodsmoke, damp soil, and the faint, familiar trace of livestock. In the distance, a wall rose from the earth, tall and sturdy, its stone darkened by age, weather, and countless seasons of neglect.
**Rivermarch.**
The town lay beside a broad, slow-moving river, its waters reflecting the dimming sky in broken ribbons of light. High walls encircled it—not ornate or decorative, but practical, built to keep out wild beasts and wandering dangers rather than to impress. Watchtowers rose at measured intervals, guards stationed atop them with spears and lanterns, their silhouettes steady and alert against the coming night.
Invisible, the fox approached without slowing.
It gathered itself in a single, fluid motion and leapt.
The wall passed beneath it in silence. The guards never noticed the faint displacement of air, never sensed the presence slipping past them. The fox landed lightly atop a sloped rooftop within the town, claws finding purchase between weathered tiles without a sound.
Rivermarch spread out below.
Narrow streets wound between tightly packed buildings. Warm light spilled from shuttered windows. Somewhere below, voices carried—laughter, argument, the clatter of dishes and cups. Life, ordinary and unaware.
The fox stood still upon the roof, invisible, turquoise eyes sweeping the town with practiced ease. It cataloged exits, patrol routes, blind spots. It felt the faint hum of low-grade formations woven into the walls—nothing impressive, but sufficient to deter beasts and weaker threats.
On its head, unseen, the lizard remained motionless.
The fox's ears twitched.
A town like this was useful.
Rivermarch looked quiet.
But quiet places always hid things worth watching.
The fox moved again.
It flowed from rooftop to rooftop, swift and weightless, crossing Rivermarch without leaving so much as a displaced tile behind. Lantern light slid beneath it, shadows stretching and breaking as it passed overhead.
Then it dropped.
The landing was gentle, claws touching stone without a sound as it slipped into a narrow alley between two aging buildings. The space smelled of damp brick and old refuse, the air cooler here, quieter.
The fox walked forward at an unhurried pace.
The alley narrowed, walls closing in, until it ended in a dead end—solid stone blocking the way.
It didn't stop.
The fox stepped forward and *walked into the wall*.
There was no impact. No resistance.
Its form rippled once, then passed through as if the stone were nothing more than mist.
A heartbeat later, it emerged on the other side.
Light flooded in.
The fox stepped out into a wide, open space—the **market district**.
Rivermarch's market was alive.
Lanterns hung in long rows overhead, their warm glow bathing the square in gold and amber. Stalls lined the streets, overflowing with goods: crates of herbs, slabs of smoked meat, bundles of faintly glowing minerals, jars of preserved insects, shimmering cloth woven from unknown fibers.
Creatures of all kinds moved through the crowd.
Humans. Beastkin. Scaled traders. Feathered merchants. Even things harder to name—short, broad figures wrapped in layered armor, long-limbed beings with too many joints, eyes gleaming beneath deep hoods.
Voices overlapped in a low, constant roar.
Haggling. Laughter. Shouted prices. The clang of metal. The hiss of steam.
The smells of spices, blood, incense, and river air mingled into something sharp and alive.
Invisible, the fox stood at the edge of it all, unseen amid the chaos.
On its head, the lizard remained quiet, blind golden eyes facing forward as if listening rather than seeing.
Rivermarch's market burned with light and life.
And somewhere within it—
Opportunity waited.
The fox spoke without moving its mouth.
Its voice slipped upward through controlled Qi, calm and contained, reaching only the lizard perched atop its head.
*This is the Night Market of Rivermarch,* it said.
*A place to buy, sell, and trade items that aid cultivation.*
It moved slowly along the edge of the crowd as it continued.
*Entry is restricted. Only those at the first layer of Foundation Establishment up to the seventh are allowed inside. Anyone weaker cannot pass the threshold. Anyone stronger is rejected outright.*
Lantern light washed over invisible fur as the fox walked.
*The passage opens only at night, and only for a fixed window. Miss it, and you wait until the next cycle. It's open to anyone who qualifies—humans, demon beasts, ghosts…*
Its tone sharpened slightly.
*But don't assume you know what's what.*
The fox angled its muzzle subtly toward a passerby—a man in plain robes, face unremarkable, gait relaxed.
*Take him, for example,* the fox said. *Looks like an ordinary human, doesn't he—*
It stopped.
A faint pause.
"…Right."
The fox's ears flicked once.
"I forgot," it added evenly. "You can't see."
It adjusted without hesitation.
*What matters is this,* the fox continued through transmission. *No one here shows their true face. Talismans, spirit tools, disguises, possession techniques—everyone hides what they are.*
Its gaze swept the crowd, invisible eyes piercing through layers of concealment.
*You don't know who's human, who's a demon beast, who's wearing another body entirely. Some are pretending to be weaker. Some are hiding how dangerous they are.*
A beat.
*That's why this place works.*
The fox moved deeper into the market, lantern light and shadow sliding over its unseen form.
Above its head, the lizard remained silent, blind eyes unfocused—listening instead of watching, committing the rules to instinct.
The Night Market of Rivermarch hummed around them, full of hidden teeth and veiled intentions.
*That's the point,* the fox continued calmly through voice transmission.
*You don't know who's who.*
*That "human" might be a demon beast wearing skin. He could be a ghost anchored to a borrowed body. He might be exactly what he looks like—or something far worse.*
Its unseen gaze swept the market.
*The same applies to everyone here.*
Merchants. Buyers. Guards. Wanderers leaning against stalls.
*Appearances are meaningless in this place.*
A pause.
*If you judge by what you see, you die.*
The fox moved steadily forward, lantern light sliding through its invisible form.
*Here, you listen. You observe. You wait.*
Its voice lowered slightly, carrying quiet certainty.
*Because in the Night Market of Rivermarch, deception isn't a crime.*
*It's the rule.*