Chapter 20: Whispers of Assembly

Chapter 20: Whispers of Assembly

The dawn light filtered through Oakridge's mist, casting a pale sheen over the valley's wooden rooftops and rune-carved stone towers. Zephyr Kain stood at the edge of the market square, his green robes blending with the shadowed alley where he had spent the night refining his gains. His qi pulsed at the fifth level of Qi Condensation, a steady hum cloaked beneath the Breath Veil Technique's third-level mask—a secret forged in silence, a blade held in reserve. At sixteen, his body bore the wild's relentless tempering: dark bronze skin etched by sun and wind, muscles thickened from weeks of survival, a few coarse hairs dotting his chin like scattered seeds on barren earth. His sharp eyes gleamed with cold calculation, tracing the square's bustle as vendors raised their cries and cultivators jostled for profit.

The brass storage ring on his finger thrummed faintly, safeguarding his spoils: spiritual stones from Torin and Lila, ore shards from a ravine skirmish, bitterleaf and qi vine from trades, and the Swift Strike Technique scroll wrested from Kara's grudging hands. The chipped spirit sword hung at his hip, its edge now faintly sharper after hours of channeling the new technique, while his dagger rested snug in its sheath, a tool of precision reclaimed from a boy's fleeting grasp. Serpent's Fang scouts prowled the square's fringes, their fourth-level qi probing the air like hounds on a scent, but Zephyr's veiled presence slipped beneath their notice. The market pulsed with opportunity—a forge of chaos where threads of power waited to be pulled.

Darren Thornwood emerged from the crowd, his patched robes swaying as he approached, his wooden staff tapping the dirt with eager rhythm. His second-level qi flickered weakly, a fragile glow beside Zephyr's hidden strength, yet his grin shone with unshaken trust. "Good morning!" he called, his voice bright. "Did you sleep? The square is buzzing—traders are gearing up for that assembly I mentioned!"

Zephyr turned to him, his lips curving into a faint, practiced smile—warm enough to reassure, empty of true sentiment. "I rested enough," he said, his tone smooth and measured. "Tell me more of this assembly—what stirs the clans?"

Darren's eyes sparkled, his staff tapping faster as he leaned in. "It is something big—next month, they say. Thornwood's elders whisper about it, but they keep me out of the talks. I heard it is a gathering of sects—righteous ones mostly, like Pine Crest and Verdant Hollow, to plan against the demonic sects in the west. Serpent's Fang might be there too, though no one trusts them fully. They are all buying up herbs and talismans—stockpiling, maybe for a fight."

Zephyr nodded, his mind spinning through the threads. A sect assembly meant alliances forming, rivalries sharpening—chaos to exploit. Serpent's Fang's presence offered a chance to twist their hunt into a weapon against others. "Interesting," he said, clapping Darren's shoulder lightly. "Take me to Lila—Thornwood might know more."

Darren beamed, leading him through the square's clamor—past stalls draped with qi-rich herbs, glowing spiritual stones, and talismans etched with runes of shield and speed. A third-level cultivator haggled with a vendor, her voice sharp: "Fifteen stones for this vine? Twelve, or I find another!" Nearby, a boy shouted over the din, waving escape charms with a grin. Thornwood's stall stood near the edge, its patched cloth table stacked with bitterleaf and ore shards, Lila presiding with her third-level qi steady and unremarkable. Her sharp eyes flicked up as they approached, narrowing slightly at Zephyr's calm demeanor.

"Back already?" she said, her tone cool, brushing a stalk of bitterleaf with her fingers. "Darren says you trade well—what brings you now?"

Zephyr inclined his head, his smile faint and polite. "Information," he said, his veiled qi humming at third-level strength. "This assembly—Thornwood plans to attend?"

Lila's gaze hardened, her hand pausing over the herbs. "You sniff around like a wolf," she said, her voice low. "Why should I tell you?"

Zephyr reached into his ring, producing a single bitterleaf stalk from the Pine Hollow trade—a modest offering, its energy faint but pure. He set it on the table, his voice steady. "A gift—for Thornwood's kindness. I seek no secrets, only rumors to guide my trades."

Her eyes flicked to the stalk, then back to him, her suspicion softening slightly. "A smooth talker," she muttered, pocketing the herb. "Yes, we will attend—Pine Crest called it, a council to counter demonic raids. Serpent's Fang is invited, but their elder's temper stirs doubts. They say a lone cultivator bloodied their mines—fourth-level qi, a rogue. Sound familiar?"

Zephyr's expression remained still, his smile unwavering. "Rumors twist the wind," he said, his tone calm. "I trade, not raid. What do they plan?"

Lila shrugged, her voice grudging. "Defenses—talismans, formations, maybe a strike if the demons push east. Thornwood's too small to lead, but we will gain if we play it right."

Zephyr nodded, filing the details away—a council ripe for sabotage, Serpent's Fang's hunt a spark to fan. "Thank you," he said, stepping back. "I will trade elsewhere—keep your ears open."

Before Darren could follow, a shadow cut through the crowd—fourth-level qi, sharp and steady, clad in patched black robes. Kara strode forward, her scarred face stark in the morning light, her crude spear resting across her shoulder. Her eyes locked on Zephyr, narrowing with a glint of challenge, her lips curling into a thin smirk. She halted paces away, her voice low and edged. "Green robes again," she said, her gaze flicking to his sword. "Still trading scraps while I climb. Did you think to outpace me with that scroll?"

Zephyr met her stare, his expression calm, his veiled qi steady at third-level hum. "Kara," he said, nodding slightly. "I trade what profits me. You stalk me now?"

Her smirk widened, her hand tapping the sack at her belt—bulging with new gains, its faint shimmer hinting at spirit stones. "Stalk? No—I surpass," she said, her tone sharp. "Found a core in the ruins after you slunk off—third-level beast, worth more than your vines. I will rise above you yet—watch me."

Zephyr's lips curved faintly, his mind dissecting her pride. A rival, not a pawn—she saw him as a peak to conquer, her ambition a flame to stoke and outshine. "A fine find," he said, his tone smooth. "Show me—perhaps we trade again."

Kara's eyes narrowed, her spear shifting slightly, but the lure of profit softened her glare. She reached into the sack, producing a dull orb—third-level spirit core, its glow steady and potent. "Three stones," she said, her voice firm. "Take it, or I sell it higher."

Zephyr's pulse quickened, though his face remained still—a core to fuel his qi, a step toward mastery. "Two stones," he countered, his voice steady, "and I leave you the square."

Her jaw tightened, her scarred cheek twitching, but the offer's weight tipped her resolve. "Two it is," she muttered, tossing the core across the dirt. "You win again—but I will catch you soon."

Zephyr produced two stones from his ring, rolling them to her feet with a faint clink. He retrieved the core, pocketing it with a nod. "I look forward to the chase," he said, his smile faint and hollow. Two stones for a core worth three—a gain tilted in his favor, her pride bruised but burning brighter. She turned away, her qi fading into the crowd, a rival to outpace, not bend.

Darren whistled softly, his voice hushed. "She is fierce! You keep winning, though—how?"

"Patience," Zephyr replied, his tone casual. "She moves fast—I move smarter. Come—show me the Pine Crest stall."

Darren led him deeper into the square, past stalls of glowing herbs and clinking tools, to a sturdy table draped in green silk—Pine Crest Sect, its emblem a crescent moon over a pine. A wiry man stood behind it, his fourth-level qi steady, his gray robes crisp despite the dust. His sharp eyes flicked to Zephyr, narrowing slightly as he spoke. "You—lone cultivator. Trade or talk?"

Zephyr inclined his head, his smile polite. "Trade," he said, producing a small ore shard from his ring—a dull gleam, barely potent. "Spirit-grade ore for a talisman."

The man's gaze hardened, inspecting the shard with a grunt. "Weak—barely worth one. I have a Fleeing Earth Talisman—two shards or three stones."

Zephyr's mind raced—a talisman for escape, useful in a pinch, but the price stung. "One shard," he countered, his voice firm, "and a rumor—Serpent's Fang hunts a rogue, fourth-level qi. Might trouble your assembly."

The man's eyes widened briefly, then narrowed again, his voice low. "Bold claim. Prove it, and one shard works."

Zephyr leaned in, his tone hushed. "Their scouts roam the square—ask Thornwood. They seek blood, not peace."

The man studied him, then nodded, sliding a parchment talisman across the table—etched with runes of speed, its qi faint but sharp. "Done. Keep your rumors—Pine Crest watches its own back."

Zephyr pocketed the talisman, stepping away with a nod—a gain in his favor, one shard for a tool worth two, the rumor a seed to sow discord. Darren trailed him, his voice eager. "You are good at this! What now?"

"Rest," Zephyr said, his tone warm and false. "Then we dig deeper—find me a quiet spot."

Darren led him to an alley near the square's edge, a shadowed nook beneath a gnarled oak. Zephyr settled against the roots, the third-level spirit core in his hands, its glow steady as he channeled its energy into his meridians. The Swift Strike Technique hummed in his sword, its edge sharper with each pass, while the bitterleaf from Pine Hollow fueled his qi—a slow drip toward mastery, his fifth-level strength veiled and growing. Hours bled into dusk, the market's clamor fading, when a voice cut through the stillness—low, clipped, and familiar.

"You there—green robes," a man called, stepping from the shadows. His gray tunic bore no qi, but his posture spoke of authority—Pine Crest, a mortal agent, his eyes sharp. "Heard you trade rumors. Work for us—sabotage Serpent's Fang's stall, two stones now, three after."

Zephyr rose, his expression calm, his mind spinning. A job—intrigue over blood, profit over risk. "Details," he said, his voice steady.

The man's gaze hardened. "Their stall—red cloth, near the tower. Smash their herbs, spill their stones—quietly. We settle after."

Zephyr nodded, his smile faint. "Two stones now," he said, extending a hand. The man tossed them over, their dull glow clinking in his palm, then vanished into the dusk. Darren shifted nervously, his voice low. "Are you doing it?"

"For profit," Zephyr replied, pocketing the stones. "Stay here—watch."

Night cloaked Oakridge as Zephyr slipped toward the tower, the red-cloth stall looming in the faint light—Serpent's Fang's hub, its table stacked with qi vines and talismans, a lone fourth-level guard pacing nearby. His qi-sensing art pulsed—the guard's attention drifted, the square's bustle masking his approach. He drew his dagger, slicing a sack of herbs with a swift cut, their green stalks spilling into the dirt. A flick of his wrist toppled a pouch of stones, their clatter lost in the crowd's din. He melted back into the shadows, the guard's curse echoing behind him—a task done, profit earned.

Darren waited in the nook, his eyes wide as Zephyr returned. "Did it work?" he asked, his voice hushed.

"Yes," Zephyr said, his tone calm. "Three more stones soon—Pine Crest pays well."

The market pulsed around them, a web of threats and gains—Kara's rivalry a spur, Serpent's Fang's hunt a shadow, Pine Crest's job a thread to pull. Zephyr settled against the oak, the spirit core's energy seeping into his core, his fifth-level qi steady beneath its veil.