The eastern sun filtered through a veil of soot-colored clouds, casting a dull, burnt gold across rooftops that sagged under their own age.
The city beyond still stirred with life—voices bargaining, metal tools clinking, hooves echoing against cobblestones—but here, in the quieter district of Hollowmere's outer ring, silence walked beside Ashen.
His robe dragged slightly against the uneven ground.
A loose thread at the hem had begun to unravel.
His face betrayed nothing. Calm, unreadable. Like water in a still basin.
But beneath the silence, hunger growled. A quiet ache
Not sharp, not overwhelming—just present. Like a whisper that refused to fade.
His qi had suppressed it for hours, but qi was not a feast.
It only dulled the body's cry.
A pang echoed from his core, just below the ribs. Not painful—just... empty.
He touched his abdomen, fingers cold.
"Even a sword needs its sheath... a body needs fuel."
The thought rose from nowhere, weightless, but true. It didn't demand action. It simply was.
He stepped under a crumbling archway, pausing in the shade of a crooked wall.
His pouch lay flat against his hip. He tugged the cord, peering inside.
Nothing.
Not even dust.
A sigh did not escape him—only a blink.
"One bronze for matches. Two for a cabbage broth. Four for a clean bed."
Ryven had said that once, back when the road had felt endless and the stars seemed closer.
Ashen hadn't responded then, but he remembered now.
Bronze coins for scraps. Silver for sleep and steel. Gold for power.
And he had none.
Outside a leaning inn with two broken lanterns, a job board creaked in the wind.
The parchment nailed to it was curled, some pages half-torn, others chewed by rats.
Ashen scanned the postings with patient eyes.
[Deliver a message to Herbalist Yavah – 2 bronze]
[Clean Beast Stables – 4 bronze]
[Guard Warehouse (Overnight) – 1 silver]
[Kitchen Assistant (Afternoons) – 3 bronze/hour]
[Hold Signboard in Market (Midday) – 2 bronze/hour]
He considered each one, silently.
Too long.
Too noisy.
Too many people.
His eyes rested on the stable job.
Few people.
Less talking.
Simple labor.
Perfect.
He peeled it free and folded it carefully, then turned toward the alley that led behind the beast-lender's shop.
The smell hit first—damp hay, old wood, manure, and the earthy musk of spirit beasts.
A scaled ox with curling horns exhaled a stream of faintly glowing breath.
Near it, a horse with glimmering hooves pawed at the dirt, its eyes reflecting slivers of gold.
A man emerged from the shadows, beard patchy, hands calloused.
He squinted at Ashen like he wasn't sure if he was real.
"You the one for the job?"
Ashen nodded.
"Not noble work, kid. No shame in walking away."
Still no words. Just quiet acceptance. The man huffed and handed over a broom.
"Don't die in there."
The stables creaked with noise and heat. Chickens darted underfoot, hay rustled, and spirit beasts shifted in their stalls.
Ashen began without hesitation.
Sweep. Haul. Dump. Sweep again.
His body ached faintly from yesterday's fight, but his movement was steady.
Measured. No energy wasted.
Each step had balance, each task a rhythm. The work wasn't beneath him.
It simply was.
Forty minutes later, the floor shone in streaks of daylight.
The stableman blinked. "That's... fast."
Four dull bronze coins clinked into Ashen's palm.
He bowed faintly and walked off without a word.
At the market's edge, an old woman stirred broth in a pot as steam curled lazily toward the sky.
Her cart was small.
Her hands were gnarled.
Her hair tied back with a red ribbon.
"Three bronze," she said. "Spirit cabbage, tofu, and a rice bun."
Ashen gave her the coins and sat by a cracked well.
The bowl was warm in his hands, its steam rising like breath from some small animal.
He didn't sigh. Didn't smile. He simply ate.
Sip.
Bite.
Chew.
Swallow.
Warmth bloomed in his chest. Faded sluggishness drifted away.
The fog around his thoughts began to lift, his limbs no longer felt like stone.
The last bite vanished.
He stared into the empty bowl a moment before setting it gently beside him.
The wind brushed past, carrying a faint scent of pine.
His body felt balanced again—not full, but functional. Quietly aligned.
He found himself wandering toward the ruins behind the town's broken wall, where vines had overtaken fallen stones and birds sang from crooked trees.
Here, nature held sway. Memory lingered in every broken statue and mossy altar.
Ashen stopped before a grove. He set the box down, undoing the worn clasps.
Wayfarer lay inside, matte and dark, without reflection.
A sword with no shine.
He drew it slowly.
No stance. No ritual. Just breath. Just stillness.
Then—he moved.
The motion came without intent.
His body acted before thought could interfere.
His left foot pivoted.
His grip adjusted. His right arm carved through the air in a slow, liquid arc.
Ten paces ahead, a sapling trembled.
Then split. Clean. Vertical. Silent.
Leaves floated down, untouched.
Ashen stood with his blade extended, watching.
"…Unintended," he whispered.
There was no fear in his voice.
No awe. No confusion. Only recognition.
That slash hadn't been learned in this life.
It had emerged—complete—from somewhere else.
Somewhere older. As though muscle remembered what the mind had forgotten.
Or rather What the Soul had remembered what the mind had forgotten.
Not mine. But familiar.
He sheathed Wayfarer with care and sat beneath a tree, folding his legs beneath him.
The wind rustled the canopy overhead.
A crow cawed once in the distance.
A breeze carried the scent of cut wood and stirred qi around him in a gentle spiral.
His breath slowed.
His spine aligned. His thoughts stilled.
He checked his pouch.
One bronze remained.
He didn't smile.
He simply closed it, then let his awareness fall inward—
toward the dantian, toward the quiet core where thought, breath, and qi circled like a silent star.
The hunger was gone.
The blade had spoken.
The day had passed.
And just before he let the world fade, one soft, fragile thought surfaced.
A name. A shape. A pull.
Tournaments.
Why did they feel so familiar?
He didn't chase the memory. He let it hover there—like mist on a lake.
Then, slowly, the silence returned.