Chapter 17: Shadows of Profit

Chapter 17: Shadows of Profit

The clamor of Oakridge's market square pulsed like a living beast as Zephyr Kain stepped from the Serpent's Fang Clan's red-roofed house, the elder's warning still ringing in his ears. Dusk painted the valley in hues of amber and gray, the air thick with the scents of ten-year qi vines, roasted meat, and the faint tang of metal from spirit tools. His boots pressed into the dirt, each step measured, his pack lighter by a handful of spiritual stones and herbs—offered as amends to Elder Jin, a fifth-level cultivator whose cold gaze promised future reckonings. At sixteen, Zephyr's frame bore the weight of survival—muscles taut from forest treks, skin darkened to a rich bronze by unrelenting sun—yet his mind churned sharper than ever, a blade honed by necessity.

His spiritual energy thrummed at the fourth level of Qi Condensation, steady and patient, built from scavenged bitterleaf and wolf cores claimed in blood-soaked nights. The fifth level loomed close, a milestone he'd reach only when its roots sank deep—patience was his shield, profit his spear. Darren Thornwood trailed at his heels, the boy's second-level spiritual energy a faint flicker beside Zephyr's quiet blaze. "Are you okay?" Darren asked, voice soft with concern, his patched robes swaying as he matched Zephyr's stride.

Zephyr glanced at him, lips curving into a faint, reassuring smile—a mask of righteousness he wore with ease. "For now," he said, tone calm. "Thank you for staying close. Keep an eye out for trouble—Serpent's Fang does not forgive easily."

Darren nodded, eyes wide with admiration. "They let you go, though—I thought they'd…" He trailed off, swallowing hard. "You're good with words."

Zephyr's smile held, but his thoughts twisted inward. Not words, but leverage—Oakridge's unseen rules had stayed their hands, a shadow stronger than clan pride. The market sprawled before them—stalls draped in coarse cloth, piled with qi-rich herbs, glowing spiritual stones, and talismans etched with runes of speed and shield. Cultivators haggled in clusters—righteous in fine silks, demonic in shadowed cloaks, lone like Zephyr, their voices a cacophony of barter and boast. Above, a third-level cultivator zipped on a leaf-shaped tool, trailing faint smoke, while a vendor's cry pierced the din: "Ten-year qi vine, fifteen stones—elixir fuel!"

Zephyr's sharp eyes swept the scene, counting qi signatures—mostly second and third-level, a handful at fourth like his own, none higher yet save a distant pulse near the tower, eighth-level spiritual energy, steady and veiled. The market owner, he guessed—a reclusive power Darren had hinted at, one Serpent's Fang feared to cross. His pack still held spiritual stones from Torin, ore shards from a ravine skirmish, and dried meat bartered from a hunter—enough to trade, if he played it right. Profit waited here, a thread to pull toward immortality.

"Let us find more goods," Zephyr said, clapping Darren's shoulder lightly, his tone warm. "You know this place—guide me."

Darren beamed, eager to help, and led him deeper into the square. They paused at a stall manned by a wiry woman, her spiritual energy fourth-level, her table stacked with scrolls and tools. "Qi techniques, talismans—take your pick!" she barked, eyeing Zephyr's chipped spirit sword. "That blade's seen better days—trade it?"

Zephyr's hand brushed the hilt, weighing its worth. "What do you offer?"

She slid a scroll forward—yellowed parchment, its edges worn, labeled *Breath Veil Technique*. "Fourth-level Qi Condensation art—hides your spiritual energy, masks your presence. Six stones, or that sword."

His pulse quickened, though his face stayed calm. A technique to conceal his level—perfect for evading Serpent's Fang's hunt, disguising his growth. "Five stones," he countered, voice steady, "and I keep the sword. It serves me still."

The woman's eyes narrowed, then she shrugged. "Deal."

Zephyr handed over five spiritual stones, pocketing the scroll—a gain worth the cost, a shield for his secrets. Darren whistled softly. "Smart pick—Serpent's Fang won't sense you coming now!"

"Safety matters," Zephyr said, smiling faintly, the lie smooth as silk. Not safety—advantage. He'd study it tonight, weave it into his spiritual energy, and break through in shadows.

They moved on, stopping at a cloth merchant's stall—a grizzled man, no qi, his wares draped over wooden racks. Green robes caught Zephyr's eye—plain but sturdy, their hue blending with forest shade. "How much?" he asked.

"Three stones," the man grunted, scratching his chin. "Good weave—lasts years."

Zephyr nodded, trading three stones for the robes. New garb would mask his trail—Serpent's Fang knew his tattered brown tunic too well. He'd change later, shed the old like a snake's skin.

Darren pointed to a corner stall, its vendor a hunched figure in gray, fifth-level spiritual energy pulsing faintly. "That's Lira—she deals in rare gear. Might have something for you."

Zephyr approached, eyes locking on a dull brass ring among trinkets—etched with faint runes, its spiritual energy a subtle hum. "What's this?"

Lira's voice rasped like dry leaves. "Storage ring—holds a small space, ten-year qi craft. Fifteen stones."

Profit gleamed in Zephyr's mind—a ring to hide his gains, secure his spoils. "Ten," he said, tone firm.

"Fourteen," Lira countered, eyes glinting.

"Twelve," Zephyr said, bowing slightly, softening his stance. "A fair trade for both."

Lira studied him, then nodded. "Done."

Zephyr traded twelve stones, slipping the ring onto his finger—a modest space opened in his mind, enough for his pack's contents. He transferred spiritual stones, herbs, and ore shards within, lightening his load, concealing his wealth. Darren grinned. "Fancy! You're set now!"

"For survival," Zephyr said, clapping Darren's shoulder again. "You've been a great help—let me treat you." He handed Darren a bitterleaf stalk, voice warm. "Strengthens your qi."

Darren's eyes shone. "Thanks, Zephyr! You're a good friend!"

Zephyr's smile held, masking the chill beneath—friendship was a tool, Darren a pawn to wield or discard. The market pulsed around them, a living maze of opportunity and threat. Serpent's Fang scouts lingered near the tower—three figures, fourth-level qi, eyes scanning the crowd. Zephyr turned Darren toward a food stall, voice light. "Let us eat—rest after trading."

They sat at a wooden bench, sharing roasted meat skewers, Darren chattering about Thornwood Clan's history—great-grandpa's rise, their kindness to lone cultivators. Zephyr nodded, feigning interest, his qi-sensing skill tracking the scouts. They circled closer, pausing at Mara's stall, questioning the old man. Zephyr's hand brushed his dagger, mind spinning—profit now, escape later.

A shadow fell over the square—eighth-level spiritual energy, steady and vast, rippling from the tower. Cultivators stilled, vendors hushed, Serpent's Fang scouts froze mid-step. A figure emerged—tall, broad, clad in gray robes, staff glowing red—an enforcer, the market's owner. His voice boomed, low and firm. "No disruptions. Trade or leave."

The scouts retreated, heads bowed, their fifth-level elder nowhere in sight. Zephyr's lips curved faintly—Oakridge's rules held, a shield stronger than clan vengeance. He finished his skewer, handing Darren another. "Good meat—keeps us sharp."

Darren munched happily. "You're right! What's next?"

"Rest," Zephyr said, rising. "Then north—those ruins you mentioned."

Night cloaked Oakridge as Zephyr slipped into an alley, green robes donned, the storage ring humming on his finger. He found a shadowed nook beneath a gnarled oak, its roots cradling a hollow. Sitting cross-legged, he unrolled the *Breath Veil Technique* scroll, eyes tracing its runes—fourth-level Qi Condensation art, masking spiritual energy flow, cloaking presence. He channeled qi, weaving the technique into his meridians, a faint shimmer cloaking his fifth-level aura—now a muted third-level glow to any watcher.

The qi vine's energy pulsed in his pack, its ten-year potency a key. He chewed it slowly, channeling its essence—Earth grounding, Water flowing—into his core. Hours bled into silence, the forest's hum fading as his spiritual energy swelled, coiling tighter, denser. A faint crack echoed within—no sound, only sensation—as his qi broke through, fifth-level Qi Condensation igniting in secret. He exhaled, steadying the surge, the *Breath Veil* cloaking it seamlessly.

Dawn crept over the hills as Zephyr rose, green robes blending with the oak's shade, his fifth-level spiritual energy hidden beneath a third-level mask. Serpent's Fang scouts prowled the market's edge, but their qi-sensing passed over him—unseen, uncaught. Darren waited by the square, waving eagerly. "Ready for the ruins?"

Zephyr smiled, warm and false. "Yes—lead on, friend."

Profit drove him—ruins held treasures, Oakridge offered shields, and Serpent's Fang loomed as a noose to slip. The world stretched vast beyond, a maze of mysteries and perils.

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