The room settled into a quiet, almost domestic rhythm.
The fox returned to its meal, eating with slow, measured bites—nothing rushed, nothing wasted. Each mouthful was deliberate, its senses gradually sharpening as warmth spread through its body. Steam curled lazily from the dishes, mingling with the lingering scent of bamboo wine.
Across from it, the lizard drank.
Jar after jar tipped back, the liquid vanishing in steady gulps. Occasionally, it paused only long enough to lick its maw, a faint hum of satisfaction vibrating in its throat before it resumed. With each swallow, subtle changes rippled through its body—scales darkening slightly, breath evening out, the faint tremor in its limbs slowly fading.
One ate.
The other drank.
Neither spoke.
Layered formations sealed the room, keeping the world outside at bay, muting the distant noise of Rivermarch's night market into a dull, harmless hum. Time slipped by unnoticed, measured only by empty jars and cooling plates.
The fox glanced up once—just briefly—noting how the lizard's posture had steadied, less coiled in pain and more at ease. Its bleeding had long since stopped. Even the dull haze clouding its eyes seemed thinner now, as if something inside it were slowly knitting itself back together.
"Hmph," the fox thought as it took another bite.
*So that's your way.*
It didn't comment.
Didn't interrupt.
For now, this was enough.
A strange truce—sustained by food, wine, and the unspoken understanding that both of them were finally, if only temporarily, recovering.
The fox set its empty dish aside and let out a slow, satisfied breath.
"…That hit the spot."
It stretched lightly, joints popping, then glanced back toward the table.
The lizard was on its **eighth jar**.
The fox didn't say anything at first—just stared, ears tilting slightly as it watched the lizard tip the jar back with the same unwavering focus it had shown from the start.
"…Alright," it muttered at last.
Shaking its head, the fox hopped down from the table and padded across the room with unhurried steps.
"Now that I've eaten," it said casually, "I might as well make myself useful."
It leapt onto the bed in a single smooth motion, landing without a sound. The fox settled down, tails fanning out behind it as its pouch slid forward.
A pleased expression crossed its muzzle.
"Time to go through today's treasures."
With a thought, the pouch opened.
Items floated out one by one—storage pouches taken from fallen cultivators, spirit tools wrapped in faint seals, talismans etched with half-faded runes, and several bundles of spirit stones that clinked softly as they hovered in the air.
The fox's eyes gleamed.
"Let's see," it murmured, slipping effortlessly into its element. "What makes the cut… and what gets sold."
Behind it, the lizard continued drinking, entirely unconcerned—while on the bed, the fox began sorting through the spoils of the night, methodical and content. The room filled with the quiet sounds of recovery, refinement, and careful calculation.
The fox's expression softened into something openly pleased as it sifted through the floating weapons, eyes bright with restrained satisfaction.
"Hm… yes," it murmured, tails swaying lazily. "Defensive tools stay. Always."
One by one, shields, barrier talismans, layered ward disks, and compact defensive artifacts slid back into its pouch, disappearing with soft flickers of light.
"You can never be too safe," the fox went on calmly. "No matter how strong you think you are, it only takes one bad moment. I'm not making that mistake again."
The remaining weapons hovered before it—blades, spears, a hooked sickle, a pair of short sabers, and two that stood apart from the rest.
The fox's gaze lingered on them.
"Now," it said lightly, "offensive tools…"
It reached out with its qi, drawing one closer.
"This one stays."
A refined weapon floated forward—sleek and balanced, its surface etched with flowing lines that pulsed faintly at the fox's touch.
"The sixth-layer cultivator's weapon," the fox said, clearly satisfied.
It lifted the weapon slightly, feeling its resonance.
"A disruptive-type spirit tool. Interferes with the flow of qi upon contact—causes instability, delayed circulation, even backlash if struck cleanly." Its ears flicked in approval. "Annoying. Dangerous. Perfect."
The weapon slipped into the pouch.
The fox's eyes shifted to the next.
"And this as well."
A glaive—long-bladed and elegant despite its size—hovered closer. Its edge shimmered faintly, carrying a restrained, heavy presence.
"The fifth-layer cultivator's," the fox continued. "Crude compared to the first, but reliable. Wide reach, good momentum, excellent for suppression."
It circled the glaive once, tails lifting slightly as it sensed the weight behind it.
"Simple. Brutal. Wide range. No unnecessary tricks—but it hits hard enough to end things quickly."
It paused, considering, then nodded to itself.
"Yes. This one stays too."
The glaive vanished into the pouch.
The fox leaned back slightly, surveying what remained—several lesser weapons now stripped of their value by comparison.
"The rest…" it said dismissively, "…can be sold."
As if punctuating its words, a soft *glop* echoed from the table.
The fox's expression remained relaxed, but sharp intelligence glimmered behind its eyes—the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly what they needed, and exactly what they didn't.
It glanced sideways.
The lizard, now surrounded by empty jars, tipped another one back, completely absorbed in its task. Faint wisps of energy curled lazily around its body.
The soft *glop* of wine continued as the lizard drained yet another jar, utterly unbothered—while the fox finalized its choices, already planning profits, upgrades, and contingencies yet to come.
Then the fox stilled.
Its tails slowed. Its ears angled slightly as its gaze drifted back toward the remaining weapons hovering in the air.
"…But why," it murmured.
Three offensive tools.
All spears.
Its eyes narrowed.
"All three elders… spears. Though one's a glaive—but that's still a form of spear."
It leaned back, one paw resting against the bed as it studied them more carefully—the balance, the length, the way the metal was designed for piercing rather than cutting, suppression rather than flourish.
"No sword," the fox continued quietly. "No blade. No saber."
A pause.
"…Hm."
Its gaze flicked briefly aside.
"One did use a fan," it added thoughtfully. "But that was his primary weapon. I assumed it was supplementary—control, distraction, formations."
The fox turned back to the weapons, eyes sharper now.
"And there may have actually been two," it corrected itself. "The fan… and the spear. Not a true replacement."
It sat in silence for a few breaths, letting the thought settle.
"Spears favor reach. Formation fighting. Killing from a distance," the fox mused. "They're efficient. Practical."
Its tails twitched once.
"But for three separate elders—from different clans—to all choose the same weapon…"
That wasn't coincidence.
The fox's expression shifted, curiosity sharpening into suspicion.
"Doctrine?" it wondered. "A shared inheritance? Or…"
Its gaze flicked unconsciously toward the lizard—then back to the weapons.
"…A common enemy."
The fox exhaled softly, eyes glinting.
"Or a common interest."
Slowly, deliberately, it gathered the remaining spears back into its pouch—not dismissively this time, but with care, as if filing away more than just weapons.
"Interesting," it said quietly.
Very interesting.