Vaen stepped out of Tent 12 at break of day, dry air nipping at his clothes.
The mercenary village was already alive: vendors yelled over sizzling meats spiced with aromatic seasonings, commoners struggled over water barrels carried to caravans in line, among farmers small clusters, their Qi imprints flashing like incense lanterns.
Mercenaries lounged by braziers, sharpening blades and trading rumours for the old ruin deep beneath the sands.
Vaen pushed through the crowd, savoring it. Commoners in layered robes haggled over prices, their faces half covered by scarves to shield them from wind and sun.
Their eyes, watchful and determined, spoke of lives hanging by a thread—struggling to eke out an existence between sandstorms and raids. They walked with peaceful assurance: Peak Qi Refinement masters lugging water jars as training in brawn, Foundation Establishment masters contrasting cultivation techniques, and no Golden Core vagrants, whose powerful auras made them easy to recognize. Mercenaries, sporting tattoos and scars, exchanged lewd jokes as they honed blades and tested spear thrusts.
Vaen's eyes darted to a youth darting through the crowd—a boy likely eighteen or nineteen years old, lean and swift. He pushed himself beside a merchant's money bag, his hand disappearing inside. Instinct overcame him: Vaen leapt out, trapping the boy's wrist in a grip of steel, and yanked him into an alleyway.
The alley was silent except for the boy's ragged breathing. Vaen pressed him against the wall, voice low. "What are you trying to do boy?"
The boy's eyes widened. "I… I'm sorry. I was hung…..."
"A mid stage Qi Refining cultivator like you is hungry. I don't like jokes boy."
Vaen's gaze tightened. He might sell the kid to a merchant and collect some money, but he wanted answers, not wealth.
He took out a tiny rectangle sized paper talisman from his belt—a slave-mark talisman that he had bought from the system—and touched it to the boy's forehead lightly.
A soft flash of light occurred, and then it vanished.
The boy caught his breath. "What—what did you do?
Vaen released his wrist. "You're marked now. That means you're working for me. No leaving." His tone brooked no debate.
The boy gulped. "Yes, master. I… I understand."
Vaen stepped back. "Your name?"
"Tarun," the boy breathed.
"Tarun," Vaen repeated. "I need to know about the ancient ruin—rumoured locations, whispers, anything you hear. You report to me. Understand?"
Tarun nodded vigorously. "I will, master. Thank you."
Vaen threw him an origin stone.
Tarun bowed and dissolved into the crowd.
Vaen emerged from the alley and continued walking. He passed by a seller of flatbread, the baker's hands dusted with flour as he slapped dough onto a hot stone.
A group of practitioners of Peak Qi Refinement held balanced water skins on their heads during makeshift exercises in strength.
Two Foundation Establishment masters occupied a low table, cross‑questioning rune‑etched fragments of desert maps.
Vaen greeted a commoner rolling a barrel. "Morning," he shouted.
"Good morning, sir," the man replied with a respectful dip of his head.
Vaen's feet carried him past a cluster of mercenaries gathered around a brazier. One of the bruisers held a sword covered in blood, bragging about a skirmish he had with desert raiders. The others laughed and pounded him on the back. Vaen did not stop; this was merely life here—the powerful fighting for room while the weak did what they could.
He halted at the map table. One of the scholars drew a line through broken obelisks, muttering, "They say the central chamber lies beneath the southern dunes. Glowing runes at midnight." The other nodded, whispering. Vaen memorized that.
The sun rose higher, heat shimmering over the sand. Vaen saw a water vendor and bought a flask, throwing his head back to drink it in large swallows. Cool liquid bathed his throat. The cadence of the camp—haggle, rumor, training, laughter—was nearly peaceful in its predictability. But below it, the promise of the ruin drew all here like moths to flame.
Vaen looked at his jade messenger. Merits: 195. No new messages yet—Mortis's responses took two days.
He stashed the jade and continued on toward the edge of the camp. Tarun, again in the crowd, looked at him hopefully. Vaen nodded to the boy. Tarun would bring word soon.
Outside the tents, the dunes began—endless waves of sand beneath a hot sky. Tomorrow, Vaen will see what this land has for him. Tonight, he had the cadence of the camp, a clear second-tier gathering intel, and treasure legends buried under the sands.
He was going to discover every trick this Chaos Region had in store.