Yun Ze arrived the next day at the outskirts of Taoling—the City of Overspills—before dawn's first violet streak. The air was already warm, thick with rumor and half-truths. Smoke curled from paper lanterns, and minds buzzed with their own echoes—a soundless psy-wave surging beneath.
He drifted into the market, a web of stalls selling luminescent stones, food laced with psy-sweeteners, and discreet resonance tools.
He hung back near an alley draped with a red banner: "Mindwares and More." A shadow-slave dealer, a woman with clipped speech, studied a cluster of psychic shards in a glass dish under candlelight.
He stepped forward, hood pulled low. "Resonance shards?" His voice was courteous but deadpan.
Her eyes flicked. "High tier."
He nodded, dropping a small bag of coins on the counter. She weighed them with cold calculation, scanning him. The air smelled faintly of evening bread and burnt magenta dye—mycology ink, a staple in value calibrations.
"Black flame resin," she said, plucking a shard that glowed obsidian-purple. She slid it across. "Not for novices."
He caught it by reflex, cold metal between finger and shard. "For math," he replied.
The shard felt warm—a flicker of grief and blood. He set it aside. She met his gaze. For a moment, he wondered if she recognized the rod's glyph glow beneath his cloak. She smiled thinly, then turned back to curating more shards.
He moved on.
In an adjacent stall, a memory forger—thin-faced, chalk-white glove—was blending shards into a fluid mix. He whispered rumors, sinking the shards into a vial of liquid that glowed with pastel flashes.
Yun Ze paused. "What shard is that?"
"Convergence of twin sorrow," she answered, eyes welling. "Not mine to sell."
He set another bag down. She measured the coins in her palm, then slipped the vial across.
He nodded. "Convergence tests are dangerous. Yet profitable."
She caught his meaning. He felt her stirring—not fear, but desire, ambition. A perfect trifecta to harvest.
He took a breath and stepped back. He watched as others drifted through the market—fortune-tellers and silent book-binders, rogue dream-walkers whispering lullabies in exchange for scraps.
He pulled out a fragment-pack from the pouch at his belt—unlabeled, unsigned. He let it roll between his fingers. No one would know what it contained until he sold it. Every shard was a story. Every packet might fetch a story's worth.
The old orphan—she stirred in his mind, but not in person. That rod you gave her. He'd left her in the ruins. She would come later. Or maybe someone else would. He wasn't sure. Memory loops could strike at odd intervals.
He approached a puppeteer-seller tangled in dolls infused with psychic anchors. "How much for the string of thirteen?" he asked, pointing to the puppets.
She looked at him. "Resilience build-up. Not for sale."
He dropped a heavy pouch. She counted, then wrapped a dusty, half-broken doll in cloth and handed it over.
Her eyes asked why—but he didn't answer. He left with the doll under his cloak.
He exited the market, passing through dusty streets until he found a place to settle—an alley beneath a crimson-curtain shop that sold hush-inducing elixirs. He laid out his acquisitions: black flame resin shard, convergence sorrow vial, puppet, pouch of resonance shards.
Then he added the rod's memory—gleaming beneath glyph-runed machinery.
He pulled out a small leather ledger and wrote:
"Purchased Sorrow Convergence – 2 gold."
"Purchased String-Resilience Puppet – 5 gold."
"Purchased Black Flame Shard – 10 gold."
"Rod collection – Value: unstable."
The ledger closed with a soft click as the clasp latched. He slid it under his cloak.
He pondered, flicking shards between his fingers, testing resonance modestly. The black flame resin spiked with intense undertones. Cost effective.
The convergence vial glowed faintly.
The puppet, he felt, lacked durability—but its emotional calibrations paired well with orphan use.
He'd wait. Let interactions unfold. Let threads spread.
If any risk emerged—he'd withdraw, pivot.
But for now—
He inhaled the city air. Smiled.
Profit was the only currency that mattered.