Chapter 51: The Monster Has Arrived
The iron rimmed wheels of the merchant carriage groaned rhythmically against the earth as Room Thirteen pushed deeper into the borderlands.
Behind them, the structural security of the First Court had completely vanished, swallowed by the oppressive, biting mountain wind.
To their left, stretching out like an endless ocean of jagged, skeletal fingers, lay the Forest of the Rotten.
Evan sat on the right side of the wide wooden bench, his clean shaven face masked beneath the dull, wrinkled disguise paste of an old merchant.
His dark eyes, peering through artificial crow’s feet, never left the treeline.
The main trade road didn’t venture inside that suffocating abyss, no sane merchant would ever dare cross its threshold, but even from the perimeter, the silence radiating from the Forest of the Rotten was heavy enough to make the two mortal horses whinny in low, trembling panic.
Ghost, his majestic blonde mane completely hidden beneath silver-grey ash powder, snapped the leather reins with a steady hand, keeping the beasts focused on the winding dirt path.
For an hour and a half, they traveled in a tense, calculating silence, the dread of the rotting trees slowly fading as the road curved southward, ascending into a wide, open valley.
Then, the oppressive winter bleakness abruptly shattered.
As the carriage cleared a rocky ridge, the scent of rot was instantly replaced by the crisp, sweet aroma of baking bread and the earthy fragrance of sun warmed soil.
Spread across the valley floor was a sight that felt entirely alien to the brutal, power hungry rules of the cultivation world.
Fields that were massive, vibrant, and sprawling, defied the freezing winter air.
They were filled to the brim with towering, golden sunflowers that turned their heavy faces toward the pale sun, flanked by endless rows of swaying, amber wheat.
Nestled right in the heart of these golden fields was a peaceful settlement of roughly fifty to sixty large, hand woven fabric tents.
Smoke plumed lazily from central hearths, and the sound of soft laughter and children playing echoed over the dirt pathways.
These people were independent.
They swore no allegiance to any grand sect, nor did they bear the oppressive brand of a clan.
As the carriage rolled closer, Evan’s predatory instincts picked up a familiar, underlying frequency in their biology.
They were Vampires.
Every single soul in this village carried the ancient, nocturnal bloodline—yet their auras were entirely blank.
They possessed absolutely zero talent for cultivation. Their apertures were completely dormant, unable to absorb a single drop of worldly Qi or nurture a blood worm.
In the eyes of the First Court or the noble clans, these people were baseline garbage, evolutionary dead ends meant to be enslaved or purged or work for cultivators.
But here, they lived with a pure, radiant independence that Evan had never seen on Earth or in the academy.
They were genuinely happy.
The arrival of three elderly merchants didn’t trigger panic. Instead, a group of robust, smiling villagers walked out to greet them, immediately offering to help stable their tired horses.
Within minutes, the trio was invited to the central hearth.
The hospitality was staggering.
These simple people brought out pitchers of their own homemade, fermented berry wine and platters of fresh, hot wheat bread. T
hey didn’t care about lineage or profit, they simply saw three weary travelers freezing under a winter sky.
The atmosphere loosened instantly.
Ghost, completely diving into his role as a boisterous old trader, let out a raspy, elderly laugh and began matching the village elders cup for cup.
Peaker, despite the warmth of the fire, looked completely exhausted, his eyes spinning from the heavy homemade wine.
Before the gathering could even reach its peak, Peaker sluggishly dragged himself back to the parked carriage, climbed into the driving seat, and fell into a dead, snoring sleep right on the wooden frame.
Evan sat quietly by the fire, holding his wooden cup.
For the first time in two lifetimes, his mind wasn’t running like a person meant to kill.
He looked at the genuine smiles of these talentless vampires.
They had no system, no apertures suitable for cultivation and no weapons, yet they possessed a peace that money and power could never buy.
When twilight began to paint the sky in deep shades of violet, Ghost and Evan stood up to depart.
As the village headman walked them back to their carriage, Evan reached deep beneath his coarse wool tunic.
He pulled out a heavy, tightly bound leather pouch and placed it firmly into the old headman’s calloused hands.
The pouch clinked with a dense, metallic ring.
Inside were two hundred Blood Stones.
In this region, a single blood stone was an immense fortune, enough to allow a person to eat, sleep, and live comfortably for an entire day.
Two hundred stones meant this entire village was secured against the harsh winter for months.
The headman’s eyes widened in sheer shock.
He instantly tried to push the pouch back into Evan’s chest, his voice trembling.
’No, no, elders! This is far too much! A few cups of wine and bread do not cost a fortune! We cannot accept this!’
’Take it,’ Evan said. His voice was still flat and low, but the usual icy edge had vanished, replaced by an unyielding gravity.
Ghost stepped forward, his massive, disguised frame blocking the headman’s retreat.
He slammed a heavy, grey painted hand over the headman’s shoulder, forcing his fingers to lock around the leather pouch.
’Don’t insult our old age, brother!’ Ghost barked with a booming, raspy grin.
’Consider it a trade for tomorrow’s steak and the peace you gave us. Keep your fields golden.’
Overwhelmed, tears welled up in the old headman’s eyes as he bowed deeply, invoking the blessings of the land upon their journey.
The carriage rolled away from the valley of sunflowers, the warmth of the hearth slowly fading into the background as the horses trod back into the cold twilight.
Peaker was still dead to the world on the left seat, snoring softly against the wooden panel, leaving Ghost and Evan to navigate the deepening dark.
For thirty to forty minutes, the carriage climbed a steep, winding mountain pass, the air turning razor sharp as they reached the summit of a towering, jagged cliffside.
Ghost pulled the horses to a sudden, silent halt.
Evan stood up from the bench, his coarse grey tunic billowing in the freezing wind as he walked to the very edge of the precipice, looking down into the massive, sprawling basin below.
The peace of the sunflower valley vanished in an instant, replaced by a suffocating wave of military dread.
The Shu Clan.
It was immense.
More than a thousand dark, heavily reinforced military tents stretched as far as the eye could see, arranged in rigid, terrifyingly precise defensive grids.
Thousands of torches flickered in the dark, casting an eerie, blood orange glow over the armored guards patrolling the perimeter fences.
Deep within the center of the thousand tent city, the faint, green pulse of stolen weirwood stone could be seen, heavily guarded.
Beneath the artificial wrinkles of his disguise, Evan’s lips flattened into a thin, predatory line.
The youth looked out over the enemy army, his dark eyes turning entirely cold, calculating, and empty.
The time for playing the gentle old merchant was over.
The monster had just arrived.
