The fox stepped into the restaurant.
Warm air washed over them immediately, carrying the rich scent of spices, simmering broth, and freshly cooked meat.
Lanterns hung from wooden beams overhead, casting a soft amber glow across the room. Sturdy wooden tables and chairs filled the space in orderly rows. A handful of patrons sat scattered throughout—travelers with road-worn cloaks, merchants reviewing ledgers, a pair of locals speaking quietly over tea.
Low conversation drifted through the air.
The soft clink of utensils against ceramic bowls.
The faint sizzle of something still cooking in the back.
Normal morning activity.
The fox surveyed the room in a single, measured sweep.
Clean.
Not overly crowded.
Multiple exits visible.
A good location.
She selected an empty table near the side wall—close enough to hear the room, far enough not to be the center of attention—and gently set the child down in a chair.
Little White remained in the child's arms.
The lizard stared ahead, unmoving.
The child's wide red eyes took in the unfamiliar surroundings, curiosity bright and unguarded.
The scent of food intensified.
Her stomach growled again.
The fox's lips curved faintly.
"I'll order something."
She lifted her hand slightly to signal a waiter.
A young man approached, wiping his hands on a cloth.
"Morning. What can I get you?"
The fox glanced briefly at the wooden menu board mounted nearby.
Simple offerings.
Bread.
Hearty stew.
Rice with vegetables.
Nothing extravagant.
But sufficient.
"Two bowls of stew," she said calmly.
"One with extra meat."
Her gaze shifted briefly to the child.
The additional portion was clearly for her.
The waiter nodded and made a quick note.
"Coming right up."
He departed without suspicion.
The fox settled into her seat and allowed her senses to expand once more.
Perfect opportunity.
Restaurants encouraged loose tongues.
Merchants relaxed over meals.
Travelers shared complaints.
Information moved easily when people believed they were unobserved.
Fragments of conversation drifted toward her.
"…prices rising again…"
"…bandits near the eastern road…"
"…guard patrols doubled after that incident…"
The final remark drew her attention.
Incident.
Her ears sharpened almost imperceptibly.
Little White, listening as well, processed the same word.
Potential relevance.
She sent a quiet voice transmission.
"Did you hear that?"
The lizard responded internally.
"Guard patrols. Incident."
Sparse.
But useful.
Something had occurred recently—something significant enough to alter city security.
The fox considered the implications.
Golden core cultivator.
Demonic remnants.
Rumors traveled quickly when cultivators were involved.
If authorities believed a threat lingered nearby, they would respond decisively.
Increased patrols.
Questioning travelers.
Heightened scrutiny.
She glanced at the child.
The girl still clutched Little White, occasionally chewing absently on his horn out of habit.
The lizard endured it without reaction.
The fox exhaled softly.
"We need to learn what incident they're referring to."
Information remained the priority.
Their survival depended on clarity.
The waiter returned, placing two bowls of steaming stew before them.
Thick broth released fragrant steam.
Chunks of meat and vegetables floated in a rich, savory base.
Simple food.
But nourishing.
The child's eyes widened immediately.
Small hands reached toward the bowl.
The fox slid it slightly closer.
"Careful. It's hot."
The girl nodded faintly, though impatience was evident.
Little White remained in her arms.
He observed the food without visible interest.
Until—
"I want wine," he said.
The fox blinked.
Her gaze shifted slowly toward him.
"Wine?"
Unexpected.
His golden eyes remained steady.
"Yes."
She sighed faintly.
This was a mortal establishment.
Not a cultivator's inn offering refined spiritual brews.
Spirit wine would be impossible here.
Ordinary wine, however—
That was easily obtained.
She raised her hand again.
"Bring your finest wine."
The waiter hesitated just slightly.
"Ma'am, it's not spirit wine. Just regular wine."
"That is fine," she replied evenly.
Her gaze flicked briefly toward Little White.
"But do not expect too much."
Her tone was practical.
"Mortal establishments do not serve spiritual alcohol."
No refined qi.
No internal warmth.
No cultivation benefits.
Only fermented drink.
"Understood," the lizard responded.
That was sufficient.
The waiter returned shortly with a small bottle and two cups.
The liquid inside was a deep amber hue.
Simple.
Unrefined.
The fox poured a modest amount into one cup and set it aside on the table.
The second cup remained empty.
Little White did not wait.
Still invisible, he shifted subtly.
He moved across the table with quiet precision, small paws gripping the wine jar carefully.
Lightweight.
Mortal craftsmanship.
He tilted it.
The liquid flowed.
Sharp.
Bitter.
Flat.
Nothing like spirit wine.
No subtle heat spreading through meridians.
No faint surge of refined energy.
No warmth settling in the dantian.
Only alcohol.
He paused.
"It doesn't taste good," he concluded internally.
Different from cultivated brews.
No depth.
No resonance.
Only a dull, burning flavor.
The sensation dissipated quickly.
Disappointing.
He lowered the jar.
Mortal drink.
Not suited to his preferences.
He set it back down with controlled care.
The fox noticed the faint shift in the bottle's position, though she could not see him directly.
Her eyes moved slightly in that direction.
"Did you find it acceptable?" she asked quietly.
No verbal reply came.
Only silence.
Which told her enough.
She allowed the matter to drop.
Meanwhile, the child tasted her stew.
A tentative bite.
Then another.
Her eyes brightened with visible delight.
Warm.
Savory.
Comforting.
She began eating more eagerly.
The fox permitted it.
Nourishment mattered.
Energy stability mattered.
While they ate, conversations around them continued to drift in fragments.
"…no survivors from the village…"
"…they say cultivators fought there…"
"…demonic traces were found…"
The fox remained outwardly composed.
So it was the village.
Confirmation.
Word had spread faster than anticipated.
Details were muddled—rumors always were—but the core truth had reached civilian ears.
Which meant the city authorities were almost certainly aware.
Not ideal.
But not catastrophic.
Authorities often responded with caution, not precision.
They would tighten patrols.
Question strangers.
Perhaps dispatch scouts.
But without clear evidence, they could not act blindly.
She took a measured sip of the wine herself.
Mortal quality.
Simple.
Dry.
Not offensive.
But unimpressive.
Little White remained silent now.
Observation resumed.
The incident.
The city.
Security levels.
Civilian awareness.
All pieces gradually aligned.
The wine jar rested untouched.
The child continued eating.
The two cloaked puppets stood motionless near the wall, unnoticed and unremarkable.
Information gathering continued.
For now—
They ate.
And listened.