Enter The Trade, Enter The Game

The ruined great hall of the Immortal Sect was still littered with the remnants of the old Second Moon banners—torn, scorched, some half-buried in dust. But in the center, on a cleared slab of stone, rested the Soul Scroll Kazel had won, the pouch of gleaming Spirit Stones, and the finely crafted bow etched with the sigil of the Heavenless Bow Sect. Shafts of light filtered through the broken ceiling, casting a solemn glow over the group of three.

Kazel stood with his arms crossed, his blue eyes locked on the rewards, but his thoughts clearly beyond them."We need more Spirit Stones," he said plainly. "If we want to rebuild the Immortal Sect… no—if we want it to thrive, we'll burn through this pouch in no time."

Arhatam leaned forward, inspecting the scroll with curiosity. "No kidding. Construction, maintenance, recruiting, equipment, cultivation materials… Spirit Stones are the blood of any faction."

Kazel nodded once. "Then we need a proper stream. Arhatam, your pill craftsmanship isn't half bad. Make high-quality pills and sell them. We can use the name of the Immortal Sect as your backing."

Arhatam groaned and threw his head back. "That's a great idea if I wasn't missing literally everything. Even basic ingredients like Cradle Leaf or Dry Cinnashell are gone. I checked the storage, it's all been picked clean. You think I can make Grade-Two pills with dust and sticks?"

Kazel raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

That's when Durandal—who'd been lounging nearby, chewing on jerky—sat up and wiped his mouth. "Actually… I found something."

The other two turned to him.

"In the west wing, underground," Durandal added, standing up and brushing crumbs off his chestplate. "There's a sealed chamber I broke into while poking around. It's got a proper alchemist's cauldron. And shelves. Lots of them. Most of the jars still sealed. Labels intact. The Second Moon left more than just spiderwebs behind."

Arhatam's eyes widened. "You serious?"

Durandal gave a smug grin. "Dead serious."

Arhatam blinked, then jumped up and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Take me there. Right now."

Durandal laughed. "Calm down, Pill Goblin. At least wait till we eat."

Kazel watched the two with a small smile. "Then it's settled," he said. "Let's turn the forgotten ashes of this sect into a furnace of our own making."

The sun had barely set when the three of them made their way to the west wing of the ruined sect. This part of the structure had fared worse than the others—hallways collapsed, pillars fractured, vines creeping through cracked walls like curious invaders. Durandal led the way, holding a torch he'd lit just minutes before.

"Careful," he muttered. "Floor's unstable in some places."

They reached the far end, where a once-hidden stairwell had been revealed by Durandal's earlier excavation. With each step downward, the air grew cooler and heavier, tinged with the faint, bitter scent of dried herbs.

At the bottom, Durandal stopped before a large stone door marked with a faded crescent sigil. "This was sealed shut," he said, knocking twice. "Took me hours to break through."

He pushed the heavy slab aside, revealing the room beyond.

A low gasp escaped Arhatam.

It was like stepping into a forgotten time.

Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, each packed with jars, satchels, and scrolls. Dust coated the tops, but many containers were sealed tight. In the center sat a black, bronze-rimmed cauldron engraved with delicate runes. It sat on a furnace plate, cracked but intact. Even unused, the room hummed with potential.

"This is…" Arhatam ran forward, trailing his fingers along a shelf. "Cloud Resin. Redleaf Petal. Three grades of Dragon Root!" He pulled open a drawer. "They even have Silver Dust in sealed paper!"

Durandal leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Told you."

Kazel stepped slowly inside, scanning the chamber. His gaze landed on a pile of old ledgers in the corner, marked with the Second Moon's seal. He flipped one open, eyes narrowing. "Stock logs. They were planning something. This wasn't a random collection. It's a proper stockpile."

Arhatam was already kneeling before the cauldron, inspecting it like a jeweler with a rare gem. "This cauldron… this isn't cheap work. The runes are suppression types. I could make near-perfect stabilizations with this."

Durandal smirked. "Looks like we've found our goldmine."

Kazel nodded slowly. "Then we begin immediately. Arhatam, prioritize pills in demand—healing types, stamina boosters, basic cultivation accelerants. Start small, make a name. We'll turn this sect into a trade power before they even know we exist."

Arhatam stood, his eyes burning with ambition. "Give me three days. I'll flood the market."

Kazel turned to leave. "Make sure you stamp each pill with the Immortal Sect mark."

Durandal followed with a grin. "The Land of the Wolf's about to feel our bite."

Days passed. Then weeks. And just when the bustle of daily trade lulled into its usual rhythm, The Fang's market was startled into a murmur.

It began with footsteps—steady, deliberate, and out of place amidst the clamor of barter and bellows. The crowd parted like a tide, heads turning as if drawn by instinct.

Kazel had arrived.

Clad in a black half-cloak that fluttered with each step, his blue eyes swept the market with the coolness of someone not looking to buy—but to own. Behind him trudged Durandal, expression unreadable, carrying someone slung over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

That someone was Arhatam.

His alchemist robes were crumpled, his hair stuck in disheveled clumps, and his eyes—red-rimmed and twitching—spoke of too many sleepless nights. The merchants whispered.

"Is that a hostage?"

"A fallen scholar?"

But what caught the most attention wasn't the unconscious alchemist or the halberd on Kazel's back.

It was the pouch in his hand.

He stopped near the central stone fountain of the market. With a flick of his wrist, Kazel untied the pouch and poured its contents onto a velvet cloth atop a vendor's empty stall.

The air changed.

Pills—small, round, and gleaming faintly with energy—rolled gently to a stop. A few were jade green, others gold-tinted or silver-veined. But each bore the same thing: a fine imprint of ∞ 

A robed appraiser from the northern district stepped forward, his monocle flickering. He snatched one pill, crushed it lightly with a tool, then smelled the powder. His fingers trembled.

"...This is flawless."

Kazel finally spoke, his voice calm, yet loud enough to carry.

"From this day on, the Immortal Sect enters the trade."

The robed appraiser bought ten pills without haggling—a move so abrupt, so eager, that it drew a chorus of gasps from the nearby vendors and cultivators.

He trembled as he reached out, eyes flicking between the pills and Kazel as if unable to believe his luck. Kazel handed him a small pouch with practiced grace, smiling like a merchant proud of his product.

"Thank you for your purchase," he said warmly.

But beneath their gazes—unseen by the crowd—the pouch had something extra. Not spirit pills. Spirit stones.

Kazel had paid the man.

It wasn't a transaction of goods—but a staged performance.

The robed appraiser bowed deeply and left, barely containing his grin. And just as planned, his exaggerated excitement cracked the crowd's restraint.

A thunder of footfalls followed.

"Ten pills!"

"I want twenty!"

"Name your price!"

Vendors, minor cultivators, and even a few off-duty disciples of Spear and Shield surged forward. The quiet vendor who'd been entrusted with the wares looked like he might faint from the attention. Still, he worked quickly, displaying the pills on clean cloth, spirit stones beginning to pile like offerings at a shrine.