A Town of Eyes

The dusty road stretched ahead, lined with crooked fences and leaning signposts. Chase walked slowly, each step measured, his rag-wrapped spear tapping softly against the packed earth like a blind man's staff. His long black cloak fluttered behind him in the afternoon breeze, its edges frayed from years of wear. At his side padded Milo, now the size of a large wolf. Though still bearing the faint appearance of a harmless furball, his eyes gleamed with an unnatural sharpness, and his body radiated a pressure that made most beasts instinctively avert their gaze.

Chase's silver-streaked black hair shimmered faintly in the sun, his pale face partially hidden beneath the hood of his cloak. His eyes, still clouded in grey, were unreadable — not just blind, but ancient in a way that unsettled those who met them.

He could sense them before they spoke. The whispers.

"Hey, look at that guy... is he blind?"

"What's that thing walking with him? A demonic beast?"

"Is he... carrying a spear? Or is that just a stick?"

Chase ignored them all.

He had traveled alone for weeks since parting with Mason, moving through valleys and ridges until he reached the outskirts of a bustling town known as Farin's Crossing. It was nothing spectacular, just a medium-sized town where traders passed through and cultivators took brief rests between journeys.

But today, something was different.

Even before he reached the town center, Chase could hear the shouting, the barking of announcers, the clashing of metal. Energy buzzed in the air, both literal and figurative.

Milo perked up. "There's a lot of commotion... feels like a gathering."

"I know," Chase said softly, tilting his head. "Let's take a look."

The crowd thickened as they approached the plaza. Chase's presence did not go unnoticed. People stared. Some children pointed. One woman tugged her son away, eyeing Milo nervously. Chase's wrapped spear, worn boots, and eerie blindness made him an anomaly in a place bursting with hopeful young cultivators dressed in fresh robes, polished boots, and smug grins.

A large platform stood at the center of the square, ringed with five massive banners — each representing one of the Top Five Sects of the Southern Provinces. Chase could sense them all: powerful elders cloaked in spiritual suppression, seated above the stage like sleeping beasts, judging silently.

A nearby announcer's voice boomed through a megaphone artifact.

"Registrations open! Any cultivator between 18 and 30 may challenge for a spot in one of the Five Great Sects! Prove your strength in the trials, and rise above the rest!"

Chase smiled faintly. "Seems we walked into something interesting."

He stepped into the line forming near the registration booth.

"Hey—blindie, this ain't the place for beggars," someone sneered from behind him.

Chase paused. Slowly turned.

The voice belonged to a plump young man dressed in blue silk robes, his chest puffed with pride and his nose lifted high. A group of sycophants behind him snickered.

Chase tilted his head. "If you're trying to intimidate me, you should speak louder. My ears are a little better than yours."

The young man's smirk twitched. "You got a smart mouth for a cripple. What sect would want a blind man? Don't get in my way."

Chase turned back around. "Then go around me."

Milo bared his teeth slightly.

Before the situation could escalate, one of the registration officials waved Chase forward, clearly uninterested in small disputes. Chase approached, handed over the fee, and signed his name on the board with practiced fluidity.

"Name: Chase Cloud," the official read. "Age... 22? You barely qualify. Rank?"

"Peak Rank 4," Chase answered.

The official blinked. "…You sure?"

Chase simply nodded.

Nearby registrants burst into laughter.

"Blind and delusional, what a combo!"

"Hah! Peak Rank 4 my ass. He probably meant Peak Rank 1."

The arrogant young master from earlier folded his arms. "Watch. He'll get wrecked in the first match."

But moments later, Chase was called to the dueling stage.

A boy around 19 swaggered up to face him — clearly a crowd favorite, judging by the cheers. His cultivation aura burst out: solid Rank 3, with good physical strength and confident footwork. He wielded a curved blade, spinning it for show.

Chase simply stood there.

The announcer signaled. "Begin!"

The boy charged.

Chase tilted his head slightly. Then moved.

A blur. A step. A light tap of the wrapped spear.

The boy froze mid-attack, his sword inches from Chase's chest — and then crumpled backward like a marionette with its strings cut. Chase had struck three times. None had been seen.

Silence.

The crowd stared, slack-jawed. The elders watching stirred faintly, leaning forward for the first time.

"...Was that spiritual pressure just now?"

"No... that was pure technique."

"Who is this kid?"

Chase turned, staff still resting on his shoulder. "Next?"

He didn't even use 15% of his strength.

By the time he defeated his third opponent, murmurs had turned to shocked whispers.

"His cultivation… is it really Rank 4?"

"But his presence feels deeper... like an abyss."

"Even the elders are watching now…"

The arrogant young master's smirk had long since faded.

He stepped forward.

"I'll fight him."