Sitting behind a small stall, Shen Liang’s eyes stopped on a familiar shade of blue. It was the same color he had seen five months ago—on a woman standing in the rain that night. But this time, those eyes belonged to a boy, no older than eight. The child sat quietly, shoulders slumped, while the others around him laughed and played without care.
Shen Liang looked to his right and left. The air around the Verdant Hollow Sect was alive with sound—vendors calling out their prices, buyers haggling, disciples moving through the crowded walkway. It was a place of movement, of life.
On his stall, a few small bamboo vials of ether water sat neatly in a row. It was one of the most common and cheapest potions available, yet always in demand—something nearly everyone needed, especially beginner cultivators.
His gaze returned to the boy. A Glacial Mark poison. he thought quietly.
The name Glacial Mark was something he had come up with himself. He doubted anyone else had even identified it as a poison yet—so the affliction probably didn’t have a name in the first place.
Most people wouldn’t know what it was. They would simply call it a curse. Shen Liang shook his head slightly—he had already used up all his ingredients on the road. The components needed to treat the Glacial Mark were rare in this part of the Continent, while across the Western lands, they grew in abundance.
His eyes drifted toward a small bamboo sign hanging from the front of his stall. Written in careful strokes were the names of a few ingredients he was willing to trade for—in exchange for bottles of ether water.
He leaned back slightly, tilting his face toward the sky and closing his eyes for a brief moment. The air carried the mixed scents of herbs and dust. When he opened his eyes again, two familiar figures were already walking toward him.
The moment they reached his stall, one of them spoke first. “How’s business today? Selling well?” The other grinned, tapping the table with a finger. “Doesn’t matter, though. A deal’s a deal—whether you sell or not, you still owe us.”
These two were what people in the area called collectors, though everyone knew what they really were—thugs who worked under the protection of certain people higher up in the sect. They made a living by squeezing all traders like him, taking a share from anyone lucky enough to get a stall here.
It was thanks to them that Shen Liang had a place to sell though, in exchange for four vials of ether water each day.
Shen Liang smiled calmly at them. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your share,” he said lightly. “By the way, do you know when the auction will open?”
The two men exchanged a brief, puzzled glance. Not many dared to ask them questions, much less with such a casual tone. “About a month from now,” one of them finally said, narrowing his eyes. “But forget about joining that. No one’s going to buy your stuff there. Your potions are too low-grade.”
They knocked on his table twice, a mocking gesture, before turning around and leaving without another word.
Shen Liang watched their backs disappear into the crowd, his faint smile never fading. Then he turned his gaze northward—to a tall building with crimson tiles and a sign that read Red Auction Association. Its walls shimmered faintly under the sunlight.
After a moment, he exhaled softly and looked again toward the boy from earlier, now walking alone into a nearby house.