The morning air in Seta carried an unease that clung to the skin like the remnants of the previous day's drizzle. Jin, his shoulder still sore from the scuffle days before, swept the clinic’s walkway in steady, rhythmic strokes. Townsfolk passed by in small groups, their voices lowered as though the memory of the pill addict’s attack still lingered in the cracks of the stone path. Faces turned quickly from Jin, some offering brief, sympathetic nods, while others avoided his gaze entirely. The tension felt as tangible as the broom handle in his hands.
“Did you hear?” a woman’s voice drifted from the road. Jin paused his sweeping, the bristles catching on a loose pebble. “A cultivator arrived in Seta this morning,” she whispered, her tone a mix of awe and apprehension. “He came off one of the Tairakan Navy’s ships. They say his Qi is like nothing you’ve ever felt. Like standing near a thunderstorm.”
“A storm, maybe,” her companion replied, his voice gruff. “But storms don’t come for nothing. Cultivators don’t step off naval ships unless there’s trouble brewing.”
Jin’s grip tightened on the broom as the pair passed, their words lingering in the morning air. By the time Jin set aside the broom and returned to his duties, whispers of the cultivator had already rippled through the marketplace. Merchants spoke of his robes, shimmering like moonlight, and the way he carried himself with an aura of command that silenced even the town guards. Tales of his purpose—seeking something or someone—spread with growing speculation. The snippets of gossip painted a portrait of a man whose presence was as ominous as it was magnetic.
By mid-morning, the town’s unease had settled into an anxious rhythm. Merchants in the Spice Market called out to passersby with forced cheerfulness, their eyes darting toward the docks. Jin stepped outside with a bundle of dried leaves for the market, catching snippets of hushed conversations as he moved through the marketplace.
The faint hum of urgency in the air drew him forward, the usual clamor sharpened with a peculiar edge of tension. As he rounded a corner, the source became clear: an artisan, his face pale but his eyes blazing with determination, stood on the edge of the square. Beside him, a younger man—clearly his son—gripped a worn hammer, his knuckles bone-white against the wood.
The artisan’s voice rang out like a hammer on steel, sharp and reverberating across the square. “He took it!” he bellowed, his tone filled with raw indignation. “A man dressed in dark robes with shimmering embroidery like moonlight stole my family's heirloom—a precious artifact generations in the making! That bastard carried himself like he owned the air around him. I won’t let this stand!”
The crowd murmured uneasily, exchanging glances but hesitant to step forward. The artisan’s eyes darted around, desperation creeping into his voice as he demanded, “Someone must have seen him! Help me find him!”
Murmurs spread through the crowd. Jin stepped closer, drawn to the artisan’s fervor. He caught sight of the younger man—the artisan’s son, judging by their resemblance—clutching a tool kit tightly, his knuckles white.
“How will you find him?” a voice from the crowd asked. “He’s long gone by now, isn’t he?”
“The artifact carries a Qi signature,” the artisan’s son said, his voice sharp with determination. “It’s unmistakable to those who know it. We can follow the trail it leaves, but we’ll need help tracking him down.”
Jin stepped forward, hesitating only briefly before speaking. Something about the artisan’s desperation struck a chord, echoing his own struggle to bridge weakness and resolve. Perhaps it was the mention of the artifact’s Qi signature or the determination in the younger man’s voice, but Jin felt compelled to act, despite the weight of his usual reticence. “You should talk to Uncle Rokan,” he said, his voice steady despite the unease curling in his chest. “He might know something.”
The artisan turned toward Jin, his eyes narrowing, suspicion flickering beneath his frustration. “Who is this Rokan?”
“A healer,” Jin replied, his voice firm despite the tightness in his chest. “Uncle Rokan is no ordinary man. He’s dealt with Qi before—more times than most in this town would care to admit.”
He hesitated briefly, recalling Rokan’s sharp gaze and the way his hands moved with unerring precision when treating wounds that seemed beyond mortal skill. “If anyone can help you, it’s him. He doesn’t like getting involved, but he knows things others don’t.”
The artisan’s brow furrowed, his suspicion shifting into a glimmer of cautious hope. “And where can we find this Rokan?” he asked, his voice laced with urgency.
“He runs a clinic by the Spice Market,” Jin said, gesturing toward the twisting alleys. “But...” He faltered, knowing the old healer’s temperament. “Don’t expect him to be welcoming.”
The artisan glanced at his son, who clutched the handle of his hammer as though it were a lifeline. Around them, the crowd remained silent, their eyes darting between the trio and each other, a collective unease palpable in the air. Jin caught a few whispered exchanges—a fragmented mention of Qi signatures and the faintest murmur about the thief’s attire. He could see it in their expressions: the reluctance to intervene, the fear of stepping too close to matters beyond their grasp.
One man near the back of the crowd finally muttered, “Stealing an artifact with its signature Qi. Must be cultivator business, let's not meddle in it.”
The artisan’s jaw tightened. “And yet, you’ll all stand here and do nothing?” he snapped, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade. His frustration hung heavily in the air, but no one stepped forward.
Jin shifted uncomfortably, his hands tightening into fists. The artisan’s words stung, not because they were directed at him, but because of the truth they carried. It wasn’t the first time he had seen the town shrink away from conflict that brushed too close to the unknown.
“Let’s go,” Jin said at last, the decision pulling him forward even as his feet felt heavy. “Uncle Rokan may not like it, but he’ll hear you out.”
To say Rokan was displeased was an understatement. The old healer’s sharp gaze swept over the artisan and his son, lingering on their tense postures and desperate expressions, before turning on Jin with an intensity that could peel bark from a tree.
“Bad birds bring bad storms,” Rokan growled, his voice cutting through the clinic like a blade. He paced the floor, his boots scraping against the wood with each heavy step, frustration rolling off him in waves. “You drag this mess to my door, expecting miracles? I don’t deal with stolen artifacts or fools who meddle with Qi!” He stopped, his sharp gaze boring into Jin. “Do I look like a savior to you, boy?”
Jin flinched but held his ground, his fists tightening at his sides. Before he could respond, the artisan stepped forward, his shoulders squaring as he faced the old healer. “Please,” Renar said, his voice steady despite the desperation in his eyes. “That artifact is more than just an heirloom—it’s my family’s legacy. Generations of work went into it, and I can’t let it vanish—not like this.”
Rokan turned sharply, his piercing eyes cutting into the artisan’s resolve. “Legacy?” he scoffed. “Do you know how many ‘legacies’ I’ve seen swallowed whole by the madness of cultivators? Your artifact is just another trinket to them, another means to their own selfish ends. And you think chasing shadows will get it back?”
Renar’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “I’m not asking for a lecture,” he said firmly, his voice edged with steel. “I’m asking for help.”
Rokan’s gaze shifted to Sujar, the artisan’s son, who stood slightly behind his father clutching a hammer with trembling hands. The boy’s pale face was marked by fear, but the gleam in his eyes spoke of unwavering resolve. For a moment, Rokan’s expression softened, the lines of his face easing briefly before settling into reluctant acceptance.
“Fine,” he muttered, running a calloused hand over his face. “But don’t expect miracles.” He pointed a rough finger at Jin. “This is your mess now. Take them to Senda the fishmonger. If that artifact’s still in Seta, he’ll know where to start.”
Renar’s shoulders sagged slightly, relief washing over his face, but Rokan cut him off before he could speak. “Save your thanks,” the healer growled. “I’m not doing this for you. The sooner you’re out of my clinic, the better.”
Jin led the artisan and his son through the twisting alleys of the harbor district, the sound of lapping waves and the faint tang of salt growing stronger with each step. Sujar, the artisan’s son, walked closely behind Jin, his brow furrowed with both determination and confusion.
“Why a fishmonger?” Sujar asked, breaking the silence. His voice carried a note of incredulity. “What does a fishmonger have to do with finding an artifact?”
Jin glanced back, his expression neutral but his tone measured. “Uncle Rokan doesn’t send people to useless places. If he says the fishmonger can help, then he can. Senda knows this district better than anyone. He hears things others don’t.”
Renar, walking a few paces behind, let out a thoughtful grunt. “Information flows like water, son. It trickles through unlikely channels and pools where you least expect. If this Senda has ties to the undercurrents of Seta, then Rokan’s choice makes sense.”
Sujar nodded, though doubt still lingered in his expression. As they turned another corner, the sharp scent of fish grew stronger, mingling with the briny tang of sea air and the faint creak of boats shifting in the harbor. The path opened to a small stall tucked into the shadow of the docks, where fishing nets hung like tattered banners and crates stacked high framed the scene.
Behind the counter, a wiry man stood with a knife glinting in the sunlight, his sharp eyes darting toward them. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but there was an alertness to his movements as he gutted a fish with practiced precision, the blade slicing cleanly through flesh and bone. When he looked up, the knowing smirk on his face carried a weight of both confidence and calculation.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Jin waved toward the wiry man. "Uncle Senda," he called out, his tone carrying familiarity and urgency. "These people need help finding a stolen item."
The fishmonger’s sharp eyes flicked to Jin, then to the artisan and his son. His hands continued their practiced motion of gutting a fish as he smirked. “Looking for something, are we?” the man drawled, his voice as smooth and sharp as the blade in his hand, never pausing his work as he leaned casually against a stack of crates.
Renar stepped forward, his jaw tight. “It’s a family heirloom,” he said, his voice steady but edged with frustration. “It was stolen this morning—an artifact my family has protected for generations. We believe it’s being moved through the harbor.”
Senda paused, his knife stilling mid-motion as his sharp eyes shifted between Renar and Sujar. “A family heirloom, you say?” he murmured, his tone skeptical. “Artifacts with Qi like that tend to attract... attention. And trouble.”
Renar’s fists tightened. “Can you help us or not?”
Senda resumed gutting the fish, his smirk deepening. “Help always comes with a price, doesn’t it?” he said lightly, flicking the blade to the side. “A favor, perhaps. To be collected when I need it. Or,” his gaze flicked lazily toward the silhouette of the town guard’s post, “you could try the militia. Bribe them enough, and they might pretend to care. Though I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for results.”
Sujar’s grip tightened on his hammer. “We don’t have time for their games, Father,” he said sharply, his voice trembling with urgency. “The longer we wait, the harder it’ll be to find it.”
Jin, who had remained silent until now, stepped forward, his tone calm but firm. “Uncle Senda, you know Uncle Rokan sent them here because they don’t have time for bribes or waiting around. Help them. Whatever you plan to ask for later, make sure it’s worth what they’re risking now.”
Senda’s sharp eyes shifted to Jin, his smirk fading for a moment. He let out a low chuckle and leaned back against the crates, sheathing his knife with a fluid motion. “Fine,” he said at last. “A favor it is. But don’t think I’m doing this out of kindness. Rokan’s saved my hide more than once, and I owe him. Consider this settling one of those debts.”
He pointed toward the docks, his tone softening slightly. “The artifact’s there, waiting for a ship to take it out of Seta. Move fast, or you’ll be watching it sail away.”
Renar and Sujar moved with urgency, their steps quick and purposeful as they navigated the labyrinth of crates and fishing nets. Jin trailed behind, his breath coming in labored bursts, his legs aching from the relentless pace. He wanted to complain, to call for a moment’s rest, but something deeper kept him moving—a mixture of compassion for the artisan and an insatiable curiosity that refused to let him turn back.
Jin trudged behind Renar and Sujar as they made their way through the bustling docks. Every step sent a dull ache through his legs, his breath coming in uneven bursts. The pungent air of salt and fish hung heavy, pulling at distant memories. He’d spent countless days here as a child, darting between crates and shouting sailors, scraping together coins wherever he could. Back then, the docks had been a world of opportunity—a chaotic haven for a boy with nothing but the will to survive.
Now, those same narrow walkways felt oppressive, their crowded energy pressing against his chest. Lanterns swayed above, casting flickering shadows across the stacked crates and tangled nets. The cacophony of gulls and the shouts of workers seemed louder, harsher than he remembered, as if the docks themselves had changed—or maybe he had.
But even as fatigue dragged at him, Jin pressed on. The artisan’s urgency was infectious, and he couldn’t shake the gnawing curiosity building in his chest. What kind of artifact could hold such significance? And why would a cultivator want it?
“Over there,” Sujar hissed, his voice sharp and urgent. He stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the rows of crates. The faint hum of Qi thrummed in the air, its presence undeniable. “I can feel it. The artifact—it’s close.”
Jin staggered to a halt, leaning against a crate to steady himself. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his gaze following Sujar’s pointed finger. In a shadowy corner near a stack of wooden crates, a man sat casually, his posture deceptively relaxed.
The light from a nearby lantern cast sharp angles across his face, but it was the aura around him that held their attention. Even without words, the man radiated a quiet menace, his presence heavy and suffocating like an approaching storm.
Renar’s face darkened, his hand clenching into a fist as he took a step forward. “That’s him,” he muttered, his voice low but charged with anger.
Renar stepped forward, his voice cutting through the heavy air. “Why did you take it?” he demanded, his tone sharp with anger and desperation.
“That artifact isn’t just a tool—it’s my family’s legacy. How can you justify stealing something that doesn’t belong to you?”
The man tilted his head, his posture remaining infuriatingly relaxed. “Legacy?” he said with mock amusement, his voice loud enough to carry. “You artisans and your inflated sense of importance. Do you think your little trinket is more than it is? It deserves to be in hands that understand its value, its purpose.” His words, dripping with self-righteousness.
Renar’s jaw clenched, but before he could respond, the man’s tone turned cold and biting. “The artifact is in better hands now—hands that will elevate it beyond your little dreams. Step aside before you regret your foolish pride.”
Renar refused to move, his defiance sparking in his eyes. “I won’t let you walk away with it.”
The man’s expression hardened, his sneer deepening as his eyes flicked over the growing crowd. He seemed to revel in the tension, the air thickening with each passing moment.
Renar, undeterred, stepped forward again, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “What purpose?” He shot back, his fists trembling at his sides. “You stole it like a common thief. What would you know about its meaning?”
The man’s sneer turned to a scowl. “I took it because it is wasted on you. Such tools are meant to serve greater causes, not gather dust in your workshop. Stand aside before you embarrass yourself further.”
Behind them, the crowd began to swell, whispers and murmurs rippling through the onlookers. Walking with purposeful steps through the building crowd was a wiry old man with silver hair tied back in a rough knot, his face weathered with years of hard living.
His eyes, sharp and unyielding, held a gaze that could silence a room. This was the man they turned to in desperation, though few dared to cross him otherwise.
Rokan’s presence had drawn the workers away from their tasks, their respect for the healer carrying weight even in the chaos of the harbor. The old man’s steps were swift, his expression dark as his eyes scanned the confrontation, landing first on Jin, then on the thief.
Relief flickered briefly in his gaze as he saw Jin unharmed, but his face hardened as he assessed the scene.
Then, with a sudden, fluid motion, the man struck. His palm met Renar’s chest with a soft thud, so fast that no one saw it coming. What they did see was Renar’s body thrown back with immense force, crashing into a stack of crates. The sound of splintering wood echoed through the docks as Renar collapsed to the ground, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
Sujar let out a strangled cry, his grip tightening on his hammer. The man’s gaze shifted to him, his eyes narrowing slightly as if assessing a threat. But then his attention moved to Jin, lingering for a moment longer. Something in the boy’s posture—his defiance, or perhaps his fear—seemed to intrigue him.
Before the man could act, a voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Enough.”
The crowd parted instinctively as an old man stepped forward. His wiry frame belied the commanding presence he exuded, his sharp eyes locking onto the man with an intensity that could freeze fire. “You’ve made your point,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Take another step, and I’ll show you why they call me a healer.”
The man hesitated, his Qi flaring briefly in response. The oppressive energy rippled outward, sending more onlookers stumbling back. Even the town guards faltered, their spears shaking as they exchanged uncertain glances.
But Rokan didn’t move, his gaze unyielding. The moment stretched taut, the two men locked in a silent standoff. Finally, with a sneer, the man stepped back, letting his Qi dissipate like smoke on the wind.
“Remember this moment,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt as he turned away. “It’s the last mercy you’ll get from me.”
The crowd watched in stunned silence as the man strode away, his aura lingering in the air like the bitter taste of ash. Rokan knelt by Renar’s side, his expression grim as he motioned for Jin to help.
The clinic was quiet save for the faint rustle of herbs and the steady murmur of Rokan’s voice as he worked. Renar lay on the cot, his breath shallow, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Blood stained the linens beneath him, and the faint metallic tang of it lingered in the air. Rokan’s hands moved with practiced urgency, the healer’s brows furrowed in concentration as he applied a poultice to the artisan’s wounds.
Jin stood nearby, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. He felt helpless, an unwanted spectator to a battle that could not be won. Sujar sat slumped in the corner, his face buried in his hands, his shoulders trembling with suppressed sobs.
Rokan’s voice cut through the tense silence, sharp and gravelly. “Hold his arm, boy. Keep it steady.” Jin jumped at the command, rushing forward to obey. He grasped Renar’s arm, the artisan’s skin cold and clammy beneath his touch. The man stirred weakly, his eyes fluttering open for a brief moment. He seemed to search the room, his gaze landing on Sujar.
“Don’t...” Renar rasped, his voice barely audible. “Don’t let... them take... everything.”
Sujar lifted his head, his eyes red and swollen. “I won’t, Father,” he choked out. “I promise.”
Renar’s lips moved again, but no sound came. A shudder passed through his body, and then he was still. Rokan’s hands stilled, his sharp gaze lowering. Slowly, he exhaled, his shoulders slumping.
“It’s done,” he said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual gruffness. “He’s gone.”
The weight of the words pressed down on the room. Sujar let out a strangled cry, burying his face in his hands once more. Jin remained frozen, his fists tightening at his sides as anger and grief swirled in his chest.
The evening wore on in heavy silence until the sound of the clinic door creaking open broke the stillness. A wiry man entered, his movements smooth and deliberate. His eyes flicked to Rokan before settling on the scene before him. “Boss send word,” he said, his tone grim. “The cultivator boarded a Tairakan Navy ship. Whatever’s going on, it’s bigger than just an artifact made by some artisan in Seta.”
Jin’s gaze hardened, his mind replaying the day’s events in vivid detail. The image of Renar crumpling under the thief’s strike burned into his memory. He thought of the cultivator’s sneer, the disdain in his eyes, and the helplessness he felt in the face of such power. His fists trembled, not with fear, but with resolve.
“This,” the old healer growled, “is why we keep out of cultivators’ affairs. Their power only leaves chaos behind.”
Jin swallowed, the knot in his throat too tight for words. He recalled the thief’s mocking eyes and the horrifying ease with which he’d cast Renar aside.
Never again, Jin thought fiercely, the memory of Renar’s final moments burning in his mind. I won’t stand by powerless.