From beneath his hood, Flaxseed glimpsed a black token dangling at Scarface’s belt. He spotted a character identical to the token had seen before, one used by Malevolent Path Hall.
His heartbeat spiked. At last, the trail has surfaced. From the neighboring table drifted a murmured exchange between two cultivators.
“Have you heard? The people from the Celestial Palace keep giving talks. Crowds pack in to listen, yet everyone who attends walks away hollow, like their souls were stolen,” one of them whispered.
“Hush… keep your voice down! Do you think we can gossip about the Celestial Palace? Last time a wandering cultivator shot his mouth off, someone from the Celestial Palace slapped half-senseless.”
The second robed cultivator leaned in, eyes wide with dread, and hissed the warning as though even the air might carry tales back to the Celestial Palace.
“Oh, quit trembling.” The brash one scoffed, lowering his tone only a shade. “I hear the Celestial Palace has gotten cozy with Malevolent Path Hall lately.”
He brought his lips to the other man’s ear, the words sliding out like a poisoned blade. “Malevolent Path Hall is hunting something called a Soul Urn-big enough to cage ten million spirits. Rumor is the Celestial Palace already owns one.”
Hidden two tables away, Flaxseed felt his heart plummet as if a stone had been dropped into a well.
The phrases “Soul Urn” and “ten million spirits” struck like iron hammers.
Could this be tied to the disappearances of my family members’ spirits, the very mystery that dragged me here?
Before could strain for more, Scarface cast a sidelong glance across the room. Words died on the two gossips’ tongues; they slapped down coin, fled the teahouse, and vanished.
Scarface drained his cup, motioned to his two subordinates, and strode for the door. Opportunity flared in Flaxseed’s chest. If ever there was a thread to tug, this was it.
He slipped from his seat, tapped a cloaking charm, and let its dull shimmer swallow his outline as flowed after them.
The pursuit wound through cramped alleys that reeked of rot. Black vines clung to crumbling walls like the talons of night itself, brushing his shoulders as though eager to drag into darkness.
At last, the trio halted before an abandoned stone altar. Unholy runes, ink-black and pulsing, webbed its surface, each glyph winking with secrets better left unopened.
In the center squatted a clay vessel half a man’s height. From its mouth seeped a keening so sharp and mournful it seemed ripped out of the abyss, and cold sweat prickled down Flaxseed’s spine.
“Is everything prepared?” A cultivator in spotless white robes emerged from behind the altar. Gold thread stitched the name of the Celestial Palace at his hem.
Scarface nodded, producing a bulging item pouch. “Five hundred thousand celestial gems inside. More shipments are coming up from the lower realm soon. When do we get the Soul Urn?”
The cultivator in white’s laugh was thin and icy. “Impatient, are we? Our overlord will fill the Soul Urn to the brim first. Once it’s swollen with spirits, Malevolent Path Hall may take it. You cultivate with divine souls, and we cultivate with celestial gems. Everyone wins.”
Scarface clicked his tongue. “Still faster than us. We have to scavenge battlefields, while you lot lure naive cultivators to hold talks and strip their souls clean on the spot.”
Flaxseed’s fists tightened until his knuckles blanched.
The Celestial Palace, stealing souls so those victims can never ascend again?
That‘s a fate no better than death!
He inched closer, desperate to examine the clay vessel’s cursed mouth for any sign of the missing Flaxseed clan spirits.
The cloaking charm faltered. Like a candle snuffed by wind, his concealment winked out, baring his aura to the open night.
“Who’s there?!” The white-robed cultivator whirled. His longsword lashed free with a metallic cry, hurling a crescent of golden light that tore through the gloom toward Flaxseed.
Flaxseed slammed a fresh cloaking charm to his chest and twisted aside. The sword energy missed his heart, but the edge of his sleeve split, fabric curling under a heat so fierce it stung his skin.
