Chapter 13: The Road to Mologan City
The small town nestled between two gentle hills welcomed travelers with open gates and warm scents of cooking fires. It wasn't large, nor particularly wealthy, but it had a charm only well-worn crossroads could claim—wooden signs creaked in the breeze, and the cobblestone streets were lined with inns, herbal shops, and traveling peddlers hawking low-grade talismans and beast-taming incense.
Flux and Ryo passed through the gates, dragging the bound and unconscious bandits behind them. The guards, wearing dull steel breastplates adorned with the town's leaf crest, eyed the captives with raised brows.
"Trouble on the east road?" one asked, stepping forward with a hand resting on his sword hilt.
Ryo nodded. "Caught them mid-robbery. Third-rate Foundation Establishment scum. Probably thought the roads were still lawless."
After a bit of questioning and a check on their bounty tokens, the guards handed them a modest pouch of spirit stones—enough for a good meal, a bed, and maybe a few talismans if bartered well.
Ryo grinned. "Payment and justice. Two of my favorite things."
"Let's find food," Flux said simply, stretching his back. Days of flying on his sword had left a stiffness in his bones. For once, he wanted to walk and feel solid ground under his boots.
They made their way down the main street. Flux's pace was slower than usual—not from exhaustion, but from something close to curiosity. He glanced at a street musician playing a wind flute, paused to watch a pair of children toss spirit-imbued dice, and admired a merchant's display of handmade talismans, even if they were mostly decorative.
Yet even as he strolled, Flux stood out.
He wore a long, dark robe cinched at the waist by a plain cord, and a wide-brimmed hat tilted low over his face. Beneath it, a thin cloth veil hung just enough to obscure his features in shadow. Only glimpses of sharp cheekbones and a faintly glowing pair of eyes were visible beneath the brim. His boots were worn but well-kept, and a lacquered sword sheath hung quietly at his side. He moved with smooth, predatory grace—too fluid for a wandering rogue, too unreadable for a sect disciple.
Passersby gave him a second glance, some with curiosity, others with quiet caution.
"Look at you," Ryo muttered with amusement as they walked. "You look like a mysterious bounty hunter from a ghost story. I'd cross the street to avoid you if I didn't know better."
Flux didn't reply.
Eventually, the savory scent of roasted meat pulled them toward a modest two-story restaurant. A wooden sign carved with fragrant herbs read Golden Herb Pavilion, swaying gently in the breeze. The interior was warm and pleasantly noisy, filled with the clatter of chopsticks, laughter, and the distant sizzle of cooking pans.
A server led them to a window table. Ryo plopped down and raised his hand before the server even opened his mouth.
"Three plates of spiced pork, one whole duck, lotus-root soup, and two jugs of plum wine!"
The server blinked. "That's for both of you?"
"Nope," Ryo said, placing his hands behind his head with a self-satisfied grin. "That's for me. He can order for himself."
Flux leaned forward, his voice soft but steady. "Four plates of fire-grilled beef, two plates of spiced ribs, one roast chicken, and a bowl of bone broth. No wine. Just tea."
Ryo raised a brow. "Damn, I didn't expect you to out-order me. You sure you're not half beast yourself?"
"I train a lot," Flux replied, calmly adjusting his hat, making sure his face stayed hidden. "I need the protein."
The server looked between them, shrugged, and hurried off.
When the food arrived, the table was soon covered in sizzling plates, aromatic bowls, and plumes of mouthwatering steam. Ryo dug in immediately, drinking between bites and humming happily. Flux, for his part, didn't remove his hat—even as he ate. His face remained hidden in shadows, drawing the occasional glance from nearby diners. Only his hands moved—quick and precise, cutting meat, sipping tea, consuming without waste.
Ryo smirked. "You know, the hat's making you look a little shady. Like you're some rogue assassin eating his last meal before vanishing into the night."
Flux didn't respond. He was focused, methodical—tearing into the meats with practiced efficiency. He dipped ribs into the bone broth, ate cleanly, and barely spoke between bites.
"You know," Ryo continued, "you might be the first person I've met who eats more meat than me. Respect."
Flux finished a plate of ribs and moved to the next. "It's fuel."
"So," Ryo said, pouring himself another cup of wine, "you're from Oaktown. Pretty out of the way, yeah? How'd someone from there end up at the eighth level of Foundation Establishment? Rogue cultivation is brutal."
Flux sipped his tea. "I trained. Hunted beasts. Sold materials. Nothing fancy."
"Nothing fancy," Ryo echoed with a scoff. "You must've fought tooth and nail just to afford pills and techniques. That's impressive. Most rogue cultivators don't make it past the third or fourth level before their foundation cracks or they get ambushed by some demon beast with a grudge."
Flux shrugged. "I was careful."
Ryo leaned closer over the table. "You sure you're not secretly from some hidden sect or fallen clan? You've got that air."
"No sect. No clan. Just me."
"Damn. I like you already."
Ryo leaned back, swirling his cup. "Well, since you're being all mysterious, I'll do the talking. I'm Ryo Vercu. Age forty-four. Single. Born and raised in the Blue Mist Mountain Sect."
Flux raised an eyebrow. "You look younger."
"I maintain a youthful glow," Ryo said with a grin. "Cultivation helps, but also, I drink plenty of wine and avoid responsibility."
He launched into tales about his sect. "We're one of the Five Ruling Sects in the Blue River Prefecture. Huge place. Mist-shrouded peaks, libraries carved into cliffs, elders who sneeze and accidentally summon lightning. You'd love it."
Flux nodded slowly. "Sounds... dramatic."
"Oh, it is. And full of drama. I left the main disciples behind for this trip—I like traveling solo. The sect sent a formal team, but I didn't get along with them."
"Why?"
"They take everything too seriously. I cultivate, yeah—but I want to live too, you know?"
Flux nodded. "Makes sense."
"Besides," Ryo added, pouring more wine, "if I win a few matches on my own, it'll turn some heads back home. Better than being in someone else's shadow."
Flux turned his gaze to the window. "You mentioned five ruling sects?"
"Yep. Ours is Blue Mist. Then there's Crimson Veil Sect—experts in illusions and blood arts. Real creeps, but dangerous. Iron Thunder Sect—thick-skinned muscle-heads who shout their attacks like they're in a play. Jade Rain Temple—refined, scholarly types who'll smile as they curse you. And Night Lotus Pavilion—stealth, assassination, poison. Say what you want about 'em, they get the job done."
He lowered his voice. "Then there are the five major clans: the Reus, Hoshins, Dentaras, Fengs, and Myrins. They control land, trade, influence. Some have bloodlines blessed by ancient arts. And every one of them's sending a young genius to the tournament."
Flux looked intrigued. "Any names I should remember?"
Ryo tapped the table with his chopsticks. "Xavier Reu. Heard of him?"
Flux shook his head.
"Golden boy of the Blue Mist Mountain Sect. Our pride. Born with talent and blessed by heaven. Peak Foundation Establishment—or close to it. Rumor says he prefers traveling solo too, even though the sect begged him to lead the team. Bit of a lone wolf, but the kind with fangs sharp enough to cut through jade."
Flux didn't respond, but his fingers brushed against the side of his tea cup.
"Oh!" Ryo perked up. "There's going to be a big auction in Mologan City a week before the tournament. Rare beast cores, high-grade talismans, even a rumored peak-grade flying weapon. If you've got stones, that's the place to spend them."
Flux looked thoughtful. "Might be worth a visit."
"I'm going whether I can afford anything or not. Just watching is half the fun."
They finished their meal with full bellies and light conversation, and after settling the bill, found an inn on the quieter side of town. Ryo insisted on the room with a balcony view. Flux simply wanted a place to meditate.
The night passed peacefully. In the morning, they set out once more.
---
The journey stretched on for several weeks.
They passed through fog-veiled pine forests and narrow ridges where the wind howled like a beast. They shared tea in roadside pavilions with fellow travelers, traded spirit beast pelts for supplies in scattered villages, and once helped repair a broken bridge with an old cultivator who rewarded them with talisman-etched amulets to ward off minor curses.
They crossed silver rivers where spiritual fish leapt like dancing jade, climbed crumbling mountain roads that shimmered with ancient formation marks, and camped beneath skies painted in shifting starlight.
Each night, Ryo would light a spiritual fire and cook skewers of dried meat while telling stories of eccentric elders and near-death duels. Flux listened quietly, sometimes offering dry comments, more often simply cultivating or meditating in the silence.
Then, one morning as dawn broke over the hills, they saw it.
Mologan City.
Massive. Ancient. Brimming with power. The outer walls loomed over sixty meters tall, etched with silver-gold formation lines that shimmered in the rising sun. Banners of sects and clans fluttered in the wind, their insignias sharp against the sky.
The gates stood open—but flanked by elite guards in flowing robes, supported by arrays ready to burn intruders to ash.
"By the heavens," Ryo said, his voice unusually quiet. "It's even bigger than I remember."
Flux gazed up at the towering city and the tide of cultivators flowing into it.
"So this is it," he murmured.
Ryo slapped his shoulder, grinning wide. "Welcome to the heart of the storm, my friend."