Chapter 53: Nine Gods ( 1 )
The muddy pathways of the Shu Clan’s outermost ring grew increasingly congested as the grey winter twilight deepened.
Ghost kept a tight, steady grip on the leather reins, navigating the two mortal horses through the narrow lanes while keeping his broad shoulders hunched over to maintain the illusion of a decrepit, elderly merchant.
Beside him, Peaker had managed to drag himself upright, though his dark eyes still looked heavy and unfocused from the lingering effects of the previous night’s refined wine.
Evan remained on the right side of the wooden bench, his dark eyes sweeping over the desperate crowds that pressed against the sides of the wagon.
Now that they were past the guard towers, the real work of maintaining their cover began.
To any watchful eye or sensory array monitoring the perimeter, they had to look exactly like what they claimed to be, small-time traders trying to liquidate their meager stock before the mountain passes froze completely.
’Step up, citizens! Scraps of winter cloth, coarse salt, basic iron nails!’ Ghost barked, his voice altered into a raspy, old-man wheeze that scraped against the throat.
’Cheap prices for the outer rings! Trade us your scrap iron, your old copper, or a few fractions of a stone! Don’t let your children freeze before the high snows hit!’
The desperation of the outer ring residents made the selling fast but depressingly unlucrative.
Skeletal hands reached out from the crowd, clutching tarnished copper coins, rusted tools, or small patches of poorly cured animal pelts.
They sold bolts of cheap, scratchy grey wool to shivering mothers who immediately wrapped the fabric around their pale, coughing infants.
They traded small leather pouches of rock salt, a vital commodity for preserving what little scrap meat these people could forage, for broken silver trinkets and bent iron keys.
A haggard young man, his eyes bloodshot and wide with the early, terrifying stages of blood lust, traded a beautifully carved but completely non-magical bone dagger just for a single jar of pickled river fat.
Evan didn’t haggle.
He didn’t try to squeeze these people for every last scrap of value, nor did he offer blatant charity that would arouse suspicion from the roaming perimeter guards.
He simply traded.
He kept his expression locked beneath the dull, wrinkled disguise paste, acting out the role of an indifferent old merchant who had seen too much poverty to care, even as his mind noted the sheer imbalance of wealth in this cultivation world.
Cold mud splattered against the wagon’s frayed wooden boards as the desperate throng pressed closer, their shivering bodies emitting a collective, low heat.
The smell of unwashed poverty mixed horribly with the bitter scent of frozen iron, creating a heavy suffocating atmosphere.
By the time the carriage had crawled through three intersecting blocks of the outer slum, another twenty percent of their junk had been cleared out.
The wagon was lighter, the horses were visibly exhausted from dragging the iron-rimmed wheels through the deep, frozen muck, and the biting wind was turning razor-sharp as night fully claimed the sky.
’That’s enough for tonight,’ Ghost muttered under his breath, his raspy merchant voice dropping into a low, masculine whisper meant only for his roommates’ ears.
’If we keep pushing through the streets in the dark, we look suspicious. Merchants lock down when the sun sets, especially in a place as lawless as this.’
’There,’ Peaker gestured subtly with his chin toward a massive, sprawling structure situated near a wide crossroads in the dirt path.
’Looks like the local version of an inn. Or whatever passes for one in this dump.’
The structure was a monstrously large, multi layered tent that had been crudely reinforced with thick timber posts at the corners.
It was constructed from heavy, grease stained sailcloth, heavily patched with dark leather strips and sealed with frozen tar along the seams to keep out the howling wind.
A flickering iron brazier hung above the entrance flap, casting a smoky, blood-orange glow over a piece of weathered wood that served as a sign.
A crude symbol of a broken cup was scorched into the surface, the universal sign for a low- ier tavern and lodging house in the borderlands.
Ghost guided the carriage into a small, muddy alleyway adjacent to the tent, where several other dilapidated wagons were parked.
After securing the horses with a meager pile of frozen hay and ensuring their concealed crates were properly locked, the three disguised disciples walked toward the entrance.
The moment Ghost pushed aside the heavy, wet leather flap of the entrance, a wave of suffocating heat, thick grease smoke, and the stale odor of cheap, fermented alcohol hit them directly in the face.
The interior was a chaotic, dimly lit haven for the desperate.
The flooring wasn’t made of the reinforced hardwood like the one in the First Court, but rather layers of old, damp straw laid directly over the frozen earth, turning into a brown sludge where people had walked.
Dozens of low wooden tables were scattered across the open space, surrounded by rough benches packed with pale, gaunt figures.
These were the mortal vampires who had managed to scrape together enough coin to buy a moment of warmth.
They huddled over wooden bowls of watery grey broth and clay cups of bitter berry wine, their voices a low, overlapping murmur of complaints, curses, and whispered rumors.
A heavy set vampire with a broken nose and a greasy leather apron stood behind a long counter carved from a split log.
He didn’t offer a welcoming smile, his small, yellowed eyes simply tracked the three newcomers with deep suspicion.
’Three beds. One night,’ Ghost wheezed, stepping up to the counter and slapping one blood stone on the hand of the guy.
’And a pot of whatever hot swill you’re serving in the back.’
The innkeeper scooped up the stones with a swift, practiced motion, grunting as he tossed a rusted iron key onto the log.
’Back corner. Separate partitioned tent. Don’t cause trouble, old men. The clan enforcers walk through here at midnight, and they don’t like strangers.’
’We’re just simple traders, master. We sleep like the dead,’ Ghost replied with a submissive, fragile nod before grabbing the key and gesturing for Evan and Peaker to follow.
They navigated through the packed tables, their boots sinking slightly into the wet straw.
Drunk patrons eyed their small merchant packs with predatory hunger, their fangs catching the dim candlelight as they huddled over their clay cups.
’Keep your eyes down and just move,’ Peaker muttered, his voice barely a breath against the heavy ambient noise.
’Two guys at the left table are tracking our purses.’
’Let them try,’ Ghost whispered back, his old-man slouch hiding a tensed, lethal shoulder.
’They’ll find out how hard an old trader can hit.’
’Save it for the main target,’ Evan cut in flatly, his dark eyes scanning the room.
’We are here to balance a tactical equation, not to fight slum baseline garbage. Clear the path and get us to the back.’
This wasn’t a place for relaxation, it was a temporary staging ground inside enemy territory.
As they neared the back of the massive tavern area, where smaller sheets of canvas were hung from the ceiling to create private, partitioned stalls for overnight guests, the ambient light faded significantly.
The only illumination came from a single, massive iron chandelier suspended from the central support beam, holding a dozen sputtering tallow candles that dripped hot wax onto the straw below.
Directly beneath this chandelier, set against the heavy central wooden pillar that held up the entire weight of the sprawling tent, was a massive, tiered wooden altar.
Evan froze for a fraction of a second, his boots halting in the damp straw.
’Heavens can exist even in the depths of hell.’
The altar was meticulously maintained, a stark and jarring contrast to the filthy, impoverished surroundings of the tavern.
It was covered in a pristine cloth of deep crimson silk, completely free of the grease and soot that coated every other surface in the room.
Fresh winter berries, small bowls of coarse grains, and a few drops of fresh animal blood were neatly arranged on the lower tiers as offerings.
But it wasn’t the offerings that caught Evan’s attention.
It was what sat above them.
Arranged in a precise, unbroken semi circle on the highest tier of the altar were nine distinct, intricately carved wooden figurines.
Each stood roughly one hand tall.
Evan’s dark eyes locked onto the display, his modern, analytical mind instantly recognizing the profound weight of what he was looking at.
Back in the academy’s archives, during his six months of silent preparation, he had read the ancient theology of this realm, the fundamental pillars of faith that existed long before the current sects and noble clans tore the land apart.
These were the symbols of the ultimate authority.
The primordial architects of the world’s design.
These were the idols of the 9 Gods.
