The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, warm shadows over the streets as Ashen walked deeper into the town. His bare feet pressed softly against the dirt, every step soundless.
His blindfold fluttered gently in the breeze, but his eyes — golden and black — saw through the cloth, perceiving every shift in the environment, every slight tremor in the air.
The streets were busy today, filled with merchants, children, and the occasional traveler.
Yet, Ashen moved like a shadow, unnoticed by most. The crowd passed him by without a second glance, as if he were a part of the landscape — a ghost in a world full of the living.
He had learned much over the past few days, but there was still so much to understand. He had learned how to observe, how to listen, how to adapt.
Yet, the most pressing matter now was survival. How would he earn his place in this world? How would he feed himself, gain power, and carve his path forward?
"Everything has a price," he muttered to himself, remembering his creator's thoughts on wealth and status. "And in this world, it is no different."
He wandered down a narrow alley, passing by a few shopkeepers who greeted him with curious glances.
He was a stranger here, and yet, there was something familiar about him. Something old. Something they couldn't place.
Ashen's gaze fell upon a stall selling dried herbs, the vendor an elderly woman who looked up from her work as he approached.
"You're new," she said, her voice raspy, but kind. "Looking for something, young man?"
Ashen studied the herbs, his mind working as he considered the possibility of trading. "I'm curious. Do you sell… monster materials?"
The woman's wrinkled face lit up, and she nodded enthusiastically. "Ah, you know your way around. Yes, I trade in beast parts — claws, pelts, scales. Hunters bring them in from the wilds. They're valuable, you see. Some materials are used in potion making, others in crafting weapons or armor."
Ashen paused, his mind already processing the possibilities. Materials. This was a simple yet effective way to earn money, especially in a place like this. Hunting monsters. Collecting their parts. It would take work, but it was a path that required no allegiance, no connections. Just strength.
"How much for a set of claws?" he asked, his voice soft.
"Depends on the creature. A wolf's claw would fetch you a few copper, maybe silver if it's a good one. But something like a dire boar? You'd be looking at much more. Why, you plan on hunting?"
Ashen allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. "I might. I'll return, then."
He turned and walked away, leaving the stall behind. His thoughts raced. Hunting. It was simple. Raw. And it would force him to grow stronger, faster.
He would need more than just monster parts, however. There was the matter of cultivation — his body still rejected mana and Qi, and his internal pathways were fractured. But that could be fixed. Slowly, gradually. If he trained, if he practiced. If he pushed the limits.
But money... money was essential. It was the bridge between survival and prosperity. He had already seen the importance of wealth here, how it shaped lives, controlled power. He couldn't afford to remain stagnant.
As he walked deeper into the town, Ashen's attention was drawn to a small gathering in the square. The sound of clashing metal and raised voices reached his ears. He moved closer, slipping silently through the crowd. In the center of the square, two men were locked in a sparring match. Their wooden swords clashed with force, the crowd cheering them on.
"Another tournament, huh?" Ashen thought aloud, his gaze fixed on the fighters.
"Not a tournament," a nearby man answered, noticing Ashen's quiet observation. "A street duel. Happens almost every week. They gather coin for the victor. The prize varies. Sometimes it's gold, sometimes materials, sometimes the chance to join a guild."
Ashen raised an eyebrow. Tournaments. Dueling for coin and materials. Another opportunity. The idea of competing for a prize intrigued him. He had little in terms of material wealth, but with his growing strength and skill, he could certainly take advantage of such an opportunity. The prize, whatever it may be, would serve him well.
He turned back to the sparring match, watching as the two men circled each other.
Their movements were sloppy compared to what Ashen had seen in the martial training grounds. Their strikes lacked the flow, the grace, the rhythm he had come to recognize.
Still, they fought with determination, with pride.
He felt a faint nudge from within, the voice of his creator, urging him to act. Ashen knew what he had to do. This was his opportunity to test himself, to prove his strength.
Later that afternoon, Ashen returned to the square. This time, he stepped forward, his bare feet making no sound on the stone as he approached the group of fighters.
The crowd noticed him immediately, whispers rising around him.
"You here to fight?" one of the men asked, sizing him up. "You're... different."
Ashen tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "I've come to join. I have nothing to lose."
A murmur spread through the crowd. The fighters eyed him, sizing him up.
"Sure, if you think you can handle it," the man replied, gesturing to the duel circle. "But remember — you fight for the prize. If you lose, you walk away empty-handed."
Ashen nodded. He understood. The terms were clear. The fight was his to win or lose.
The duel was quick.
The moment Ashen entered the ring, the fighters shifted. The crowd grew quiet, waiting. His opponent, a burly man with a thick beard and oversized wooden sword, lunged first.
Ashen dodged the strike with ease, moving like a ripple in water. His movements were fluid, controlled, each motion precise. He didn't strike back immediately. He observed. He felt the weight of his opponent's stance, the pressure behind each blow.
A moment later, the man overextended, his foot slipping on the wet stone. Ashen's hand darted out, effortlessly disarming him, sending the wooden sword flying. With a single fluid motion, Ashen applied pressure to the man's wrist, forcing him to the ground without a sound.
The crowd fell silent.
Ashen stood over him, his face impassive.
"That's enough," he said softly.
The defeated man nodded, scrambling to his feet. Ashen didn't need to say more. He turned and walked away from the ring, the crowd parting for him like a wave. He had earned their respect — or perhaps fear. Either way, it didn't matter. What mattered was the prize.
As he exited the square, Ashen's mind began to shift, focusing on his next step. The tournament had been a start. Money would come. Materials would come. But the path forward was not clear.
He had many questions. Many things to learn. But for now, he would continue forward — one step at a time.