The market was a cacophony of voices, laughter, and haggling that rose into the air like a chaotic chant, an involuntary hymn to daily survival. Among the stalls of gleaming fruits and artisans with cracked hands moved a peculiar figure, impossible to ignore, yet just as easy to dismiss if one wished to.
Aiden walked with a mix of solemnity and nonchalance, like a king without a kingdom, a general without an army. On his wrist, a cotton cord swayed slightly, tied to the handle of a cheap kitchen knife that swung to the rhythm of his steps. The knife was his only companion, his only constant in a world that seemed to offer him little more than bewilderment.
The sun, relentless in the sky, reflected off the knife's worn blade, sending flashes that danced over the market's cobblestones. Aiden, however, seemed oblivious to the heat and the bustle. His eyes, two black abysses that absorbed everything around them, scanned his surroundings with an intensity that felt almost uncomfortable to those who met his gaze.
"Come on, knife, time for our daily walk," he murmured, tilting his head slightly toward his wrist.
It was a phrase he repeated with the familiarity of a ritual, as if the knife were more than an inanimate object. To him, it was. The knife wasn't just a cheap kitchen utensil; it was his confidant, his accomplice, his ally in an invisible war that no one else seemed to notice.
He passed a fruit stall where a man with a wrinkled face and a furrowed brow watched him with a mix of curiosity and distaste. Aiden paused for a moment, letting the cord tense slightly, and offered a smile that could be interpreted as friendly or disturbing, depending on who received it.
"Hey!" shouted the fruit vendor, pointing with a finger stained with melon juice. "What kind of lunatic walks around with a knife in the market? That's not a toy, boy!"
Aiden slowly turned his head toward him, as if processing his words with exaggerated deliberation. Then, he raised his wrist so the knife became more visible, allowing the sun to draw one last gleam from its blade.
"The knife never lies," he replied, his voice calm but with a gravity that seemed disproportionate to the situation. "It always tells me the truth. Sometimes, that truth isn't what people want to hear."
The fruit vendor blinked, confused, and muttered something inaudible before turning back to his stall. Aiden shrugged and continued walking, oblivious to the effect his words and actions had on others.
A little farther ahead, a roasted chicken stall caught his attention. The smell was irresistible, a blend of spices, fat, and smoke that hung in the air like a promise. Aiden stopped in front of the stall, watching the chickens slowly rotating over the fire, his eyes reflecting the flames.
"You know, knife?" he said aloud, as if he actually expected the knife to respond. "I've always thought roasted chicken has a kind of dignity. As if it accepts its fate with a grace few humans can match."
As he waited his turn to buy a chicken, Aiden felt something that deeply unsettled him. It wasn't a supernatural instinct or some cultivated skill, but a crushing sensation, as if the air around him were being compressed by an invisible presence. He turned his head, searching for the source of this discomfort, and found it: there was one of them again. This time, a man dressed in a white robe, with a fixed gaze that Aiden couldn't quite decipher.
He wasn't the only one. In recent days, several like him had appeared, always on the periphery, always watching. High-level cultivators, their overwhelming presences made him feel like an insect under a magnifying glass, something he had never experienced before. His skin tingled, as if the world were struggling to adapt to these overflowing existences. Though he couldn't name it, he knew something about them was different, disturbing. They didn't look at him with hostility or contempt, but with an uncomfortable fascination, as if observing him for something even he didn't understand.
Aiden smiled to himself as he tried to ignore the pressure. He wasn't a cultivator, nor did he possess impressive techniques or legendary lineages—just a knife, a few questions, and this nagging feeling that the world wasn't what everyone believed. Yet these men followed him as if expecting something, and that expectation irritated him deeply.
When he was handed his chicken, he walked to a nearby table, determined to ignore the stares and enjoy his meal. But between bites, his eyes lifted toward the cultivator in the white robe, who, though trying to appear impassive, betrayed a mix of admiration and barely contained respect. It was as if he were in the presence of something he didn't understand but revered by instinct.
Aiden chewed a piece of chicken with deliberate slowness before speaking, his tone dry and laden with sarcasm.
"What's up?" he asked finally, his mouth half-full. "You've been following me for weeks like I'm some kind of traveling spectacle. Don't you have anything better to do?"
The cultivator blinked, surprised by Aiden's bluntness, but quickly regained his composure.
"It's nothing personal," he replied, his tone calm, though his eyes gleamed with contained emotion.
Aiden let out a laugh, foolish yet sharp enough to cut the air.
"Right, right, nothing personal," he repeated, mocking the man's formal tone. "Let me guess: you're waiting for me to do something incredible, aren't you? Some kind of miracle or disaster. But what if I'm just here for the chicken?"
The cultivator held his gaze, and though he didn't respond, his lips hinted at the faintest smile, as if he had heard something that confirmed a private suspicion. That reaction irritated Aiden even more, who turned back to his meal, pretending the conversation was over, though inside, he couldn't stop his mind from wandering.
His eyes settled on the knife on the table, his expression shifting from indifference to something sharper, more curious. As he observed it, a spark of doubt crossed his mind. What the hell did these cultivators see in him? he thought. Why did his mere presence seem to twist the world around him? And more importantly, why were they so convinced that his existence held some significance he himself was unaware of?
"You know, knife?" he said, resting his chin on his hand. "Sometimes I think you know something I don't. Something important. What is it, huh? What secret are you keeping?"
The knife, of course, didn't respond. But Aiden was certain that, in some way, the answer was there, waiting to be discovered.
As the sky slowly darkened and the first signs of a storm became evident, Aiden stood up, took his knife, and continued on his way. The cultivators still watched him with fanatical eyes, but he paid them no more attention.
For now, his only concern was finding a good place to reflect... and maybe buying another chicken.