Han Sen walked the streets of Chang’an beneath a pale winter sun.

  The city still bore the scars of An Lushan’s rebellion—charred beams in some walls, empty lots where grand homes once stood—but new life pushed through.

  Fresh timber gleamed on door frames and window shutters, pale and fragrant, as if the capital itself sought to be reborn.

  Shops rose again, banners bright, voices rising in cautious trade.

  Han Sen moved unhurried, basket empty, eyes taking in the slow healing of the greatest city in the realm.

  As noon approached, hunger stirred.

  He chose a substantial eatery near the western market—two storeys, red pillars, roof tiles newly glazed.

  He climbed to the upper floor and claimed a table by the window.

  From there, he could watch the artery of the capital: carts creaking under loads of rice and silk, officials in fur-lined robes, soldiers on leave laughing too loud, women with market baskets, children darting between legs.

  Life flowed again—tentative, but unbroken.

  A server approached.

  Han Sen ordered simply: steamed fish, vegetables, rice, and a pot of hot wine.

  He ate slowly, gaze drifting over the endless current below.

  “Brother Han Sen! What wind blows you to the capital?”

  The voice—familiar, warm—cut through the murmur.

  Han Sen turned.

  Yan Lok stood grinning, scholar’s robes neat despite the road dust.

  “Brother Yan Lok! Well met.”

  They exchanged bows, smiles easy between men who had once fought back-to-back against nightmare.

  “Join me,” Han Sen said, gesturing to the empty chair.

  Yan Lok sat, ordered quickly—duck with ginger, extra rice.

  The server hurried off.

  “Brother Han,” Yan Lok began, leaning forward, “I never properly thanked you for those gifts. The fan and ring—you saved my life more than once.”

  Han Sen’s brow lifted. “How so?”

  “The fan cleans poison from the air—one wave, and miasma vanishes. In the southern marshes, it kept fever at bay. The ring… it lends the strength of four men. Carrying wounded, breaking barriers—I could not have managed without it.”

  Han Sen smiled faintly. “I am glad they serve.”

  “And the black stones you shared,” Yan Lok continued, eyes bright. “Extraordinary.”

  “What do they do?” Han Sen asked, curiosity genuine.

  Yan Lok glanced around, then lowered his voice.

  “They feed qi—dark, cold, shadow essence. Draw your own power into the stone, and it returns amplified. My cultivation has leapt forward.”

  He reached across, palm open.

  “Show me.”

  Han Sen produced two black stones from his pouch—smooth, light-swallowing.

  Yan Lok took one, closed fist around it.

  Thin smoke curled between his fingers.

  His face relaxed in quiet pleasure.

  “Feel it,” he urged.

  Han Sen cupped the second stone.

  He sent a thread of qi inward.

  Black, frigid energy surged back—shadowy, alien.

  It raced toward his dantian.

  Han Sen severed the flow instantly.

  The strange qi dispersed, leaving only chill upon his meridians.

  No harmony.

  No welcome.

  “Do you still have it for trade?” Yan Lok said. “The Huang San Sect would pay well. Come with me—let us sell them together.”

  Han Sen considered.

  He had no pressing need, yet curiosity stirred.

  “Lead on.”

  Yan Lok paid the bill despite protest—“A newcomer to the capital should not spend his first coin here.”

  They walked west through bustling wards until a high wall appeared—plain gates, no grand banners.

  Huang San Pai.

  Inside, the compound was surprising: no uniform robes.

  A farmer in a straw hat practiced spear forms beside a merchant in silk, counting beads between strikes.

  A fisherman mended nets while circulating qi.

  All moved with purpose, yet none had shed their former lives.

  “This is our way,” Yan Lok explained. “Master Liu Cao teaches that truth lies in who we are, not who we pretend to be. A fisherman brings the patience of tides. A merchant, the cunning of trade. We keep our roots.”

  Han Sen nodded slowly.

  Strength from honesty.

  A lesson the jianghu often forgot.

  Han Sen followed Yan Lok through a narrow corridor into a private chamber at the rear of the compound.

  The air grew thicker—scent of sweat, oil, and old leather.

  A hulking figure loomed near the door—bald-headed, bare-chested, muscles knotted like old tree roots.

  He bellowed the moment he saw Yan Lok.

  “Heh! Yan Lok! Hand over those black stones! Don’t think you can keep them all for yourself!”

  Yan Lok’s lip curled.

  “Rong Gwe, mind your tongue. You haven’t even touched Foundation Establishment. Save your breath—it stinks enough already.”

  Rong Gwe’s face purpled, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.

  No retort came.

  Yan Lok strode past without another glance.

  “Come, Brother Han Sen. Let us greet our senior.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The chamber opened wider than expected—stacks of burlap sacks lined the walls, lanterns casting warm pools of light upon rough wooden tables.

  A man in plain merchant’s robes—stained apron, sleeves rolled high—stood counting coins into neat piles.

  He looked up as they approached.

  “Lok-er,” he said, voice calm but appraising, “you bring a stranger?”

  Yan Lok bowed respectfully.

  “Senior, this is my sworn brother, Han Sen. Han Sen—this is Senior Kwee Lam, master of provisions for the sect.”

  Han Sen mirrored the bow, deeper.

  “Greetings, Senior Kwee Lam. I am Han Sen.”

  Kwee Lam’s eyes flicked over him—quick, measuring.

  “Well met. Lok-er says you carry black stones?”

  Yan Lok grinned.

  “He does, Senior. Twenty of them. You spoke yesterday of wishing to buy.”

  Kwee Lam leaned forward, interest sharpening.

  “Twenty? Let me see. Name your price, young Han.”

  Han Sen paused.

  He had pondered this on the road, but numbers danced uncertainly.

  “One stone—five hundred copper coins.”

  Kwee Lam did not blink.

  “Two hundred fifty.”

  Han Sen held steady.

  “Four hundred fifty.”

  “Three hundred.”

  Han Sen smiled faintly—the merchant’s blood stirring in him after months at Kim Tun’s side.

  “Let us meet thus: one silver tael for five stones.”

  Silence.

  Kwee Lam rubbed his chin, calculating.

  One tael was roughly two thousand coppers.

  Twenty stones at that rate—four taels.

  He knew the stones’ true worth at auction could climb far higher.

  Yet the boy’s eyes held no greed—only quiet confidence.

  “Hahahaha! Done!” Kwee Lam laughed, clapping hands. “One tael for five. A fair bargain.”

  He counted out four silver taels—solid, heavy, stamped with the imperial mark.

  Han Sen produced the twenty black stones from his pouch, laying them upon the table like dark river pebbles.

  Kwee Lam swept them into a sack with practiced speed.

  “Thank you, Senior,” Han Sen said, bowing again.

  Kwee Lam studied him, amusement lingering.

  “Young Han Sen—did you profit or lose today? These stones… at open auction, each could fetch ten taels or more. Twenty would bring two hundred.”

  Han Sen inclined his head.

  “Senior’s eye is sharp. Yet I have three reasons for the price.”

  Kwee Lam’s brows rose.

  “Speak them.”

  “First—few yet know the stones’ true value. A high price now would slow their spread.

  Second—twenty stones entering the market will stir demand. Men will seek more.

  Third—” Han Sen’s voice remained even—“these stones are spent after one use. They crumble to nothing. When supply dries, and demand rises… the price of any remaining will climb far beyond ten taels.”

  Kwee Lam stared.

  Then burst into laughter—deep, rolling, genuine.

  “You still hold more?”

  “Not many,” Han Sen admitted. “But enough. I can wait.”

  Kwee Lam slapped the burlap sacks beside him.

  “Hahahaha! Remarkable! Yan Lok—your friend has opened my eyes today. I, Kwee Lam, who have haggled from Luoyang to Lingnan, stand schooled by a youth!”

  He clapped Han Sen’s shoulder—firm, approving.

  Han Sen felt warmth rise to his cheeks.

  Had he spoken too boldly?

  Yet the words had come honestly.

  Kwee Lam’s laughter faded to a thoughtful smile.

  “Stay for tea, young Han. The sect could use a mind like yours.”

  Han Sen bowed once more.

  Han Sen followed Yan Lok from the chamber, the weight of four silver taels pleasant in his pouch.

  They walked through quiet corridors until they reached Yan Lok’s private quarters—a modest room with a low guest table, cushions, and a small brazier giving off gentle warmth.

  Yan Lok poured tea with careful grace, steam rising fragrant between them.

  He offered a cup.

  Han Sen accepted, bowing slightly.

  “Brother Yan Lok,” he began, voice measured, “how did you discover the virtues of the fan and ring?”

  Yan Lok smiled, setting the pot down.

  “A small favor. In Chang’an, there is an auction house—lively these days. Many warriors hunt the beasts from crimson gates. Their remains yield strange treasures. The auctions grow crowded.”

  Han Sen nodded slowly.

  He had given little thought to the relics left behind—save those that served him.

  “In the auction house,” Yan Lok continued, “there are appraisers skilled in uncovering hidden properties. I took the fan and ring to one. He revealed their secrets.”

  “Might we meet this appraiser?” Han Sen asked, interest sharpening.

  Yan Lok’s eyes brightened.

  “The day is still young. It is not far. Come.”

  They left the Huang San Sect through a side gate.

  The streets grew busier—merchants calling, carts creaking, the capital’s pulse quickening toward evening.

  They walked west, past cloth sellers and bronze workers, until a discreet courtyard appeared—high walls, plain gate, no grand sign.

  Only a small plaque: Eternal Treasure Pavilion.

  The courtyard inside was quiet—few visitors, air thick with incense.

  A middle-aged manager in neat robes greeted them with a deep bow.

  “Young Master Yan Lok—welcome again.”

  His eyes flicked to Han Sen, respectful but measuring.

  Who is Yan Lok? The manager is respecting him very much, Han Sen thought to himself.

  Yan Lok gestured.

  “My brother Han Sen has an item for appraisal. Might we trouble the master?”

  “Of course,” the manager replied smoothly. “This way.”

  He led them down a long corridor—lanterns casting soft glow upon silk screens—into a spacious, well-lit chamber.

  Three appraisers worked at low tables, tools and gems scattered like stars.

  The manager addressed a lean, bald elder.

  “Master A Fau—please assist these young gentlemen.”

  A Fau rose, bowing.

  Han Sen drew the massive Obsidian Sphere from his pouch—dark, heavy, larger than a man’s fist.

  He placed it upon the felt mat.

  “Could you examine this?”

  The manager cleared his throat.

  “Appraisal carries a fee—two silver taels per item. But for Young Master Yan Lok’s companion, we reduce to one.”

  Han Sen produced the coin without hesitation.

  Three taels remained.

  A Fau accepted the sphere, turning it carefully in weathered hands.

  He drew a deep-green gem from his sleeve—forest emerald, flawless.

  Pressed it to his forehead.

  Eyes closed.

  Moments passed.

  Then they snapped open wide with shock.

  “This…” he breathed, voice trembling.

  The manager leaned forward.

  “What is it?”

  A Fau’s words came hushed, reverent.

  “A Soul-Binding Obsidian Sphere.

  Should death come near its bearer, the soul of the fallen is drawn within.

  The owner gains a second life—revived at the cost of the trapped spirit.”

  Silence fell.

  Every eye turned to Han Sen.

  From what nightmare lair had he claimed such a thing?

  Han Sen felt no thrill.

  Only quiet revulsion.

  To steal a soul—chain it, consume it—for one more breath?

  To barter another’s reincarnation for his own survival?

  No.

  Such power was poison.

  The manager recovered first, excitement gleaming.

  “Young Master Han Sen—would you consign this to auction? It is priceless. Ten gold taels at least—perhaps hundreds.”

  Han Sen met his gaze steadily.

  “Is it truly so valuable?”

  “Beyond doubt. Normally we take an advance fee. For this—we ask only four percent of the final sale.”

  Han Sen considered.

  He had no wish to carry the sphere longer.

  “When is the auction?”

  “Once every three months—we gather worthy items. The next falls early next month.”

  Ten days.

  Acceptable.

  Several gold taels would serve well.

  He nodded.

  “I consign it.”

  Yan Lok watched, a faint shake of the head, wry smile hidden.

  He could not imagine parting with a second life.

  Who would refuse it?

  Han Sen bowed to the appraisers.

  The dragon walked away lighter.

  Free of a treasure that weighed heavier than gold.

  Han Sen and Yan Lok stepped from the auction house into the slanting afternoon light.

  The street hummed quieter now—vendors packing wares, shadows lengthening across the stones.

  Han Sen bowed deeply.

  “Brother Yan Lok, my deepest thanks for your guidance and company today. The sun lowers—I will seek an inn. Let us part here.”

  Yan Lok returned the bow, smile warm.

  “The pleasure was mine. See—that inn ahead looks worthy.”

  He pointed to a large establishment across the lane—clean walls, red lanterns freshly painted, sign swaying gently: River View Rest.

  Han Sen studied it.

  Spacious. Orderly. Windows overlooking the Wei’s silver flow.

  “It will serve,” he agreed.

  “Then until tomorrow,” Yan Lok said.

  They clasped forearms briefly—brother to brother—then separated.

  Han Sen crossed to the inn.

  The keeper—a stout man with a courteous smile—greeted him at the counter.

  “A room for one month,” Han Sen said, "with breakfast included."

  “Upper floor, river view—two silver taels.”

  Han Sen paid without hesitation.

  Two taels—four thousand coppers—for thirty nights.

  More than a hundred coppers each day.

  The capital’s prices bit deep.

  Yet ten days hence, gold would come.

  Two silver taels were dust.

  The keeper’s manner shifted instantly—bow deeper, voice softer, keys offered with both hands.

  In Chang’an, coins spoke loudest.

  Character, demeanor, belief—all secondary.

  Han Sen climbed to the second floor.

  His chamber was simple yet clean: a wide kang bed with a fresh quilt, a table and chair by the window, a wardrobe holding a porcelain basin for washing.

  The view opened over the Wei River—water catching the last light, boats gliding like slow thoughts.

  He entered.

  Bolted the door.

  Then, alone in the quiet, drew forth his treasures from the mystic pouch.

  One by one, he laid them upon the table.

  The deep emerald gem—forest dark, flawless.

  The shadowed jade dagger—small, lethal, cold to touch.

  The polished bronze mirror—plain rim, surface gleaming.

  The amulet of Cloud and Wave—worn characters still clear.

  The jade bowl from a forgotten beast.

  The wooden bracelet was taken from the Dark Emperor’s remnant.

  The peach-colored cloth—soft as dawn mist.

  And the crimson-tinged silver stone—warm, patient, time-bender.

  He took the emerald gem first.

  It felt akin to A Fau’s tool.

  He pressed it to his forehead.

  Put the peach-colored cloth in front of him. Closed eyes.

  Darkness… then white script bloomed clear in his mind.

  Chameleon Cloth

  Usage: Draped upon the head and fed qi, it reshapes appearance—face, form, aura—to match the vision held in the bearer’s qi for the first five breaths. Thereafter fixed until released or death.

  Changes only seeming, not substance.

  Resists all weather, cannot be torn while qi flows. Falls away if qi ceases.

  Han Sen opened his eyes.

  He unfolded the peach-colored cloth.

  Light as silk, strong as steel.

  A disguise beyond price.

  He set it aside.

  Next—the bronze mirror.

  Gem to forehead again.

  Eyes closed.

  Mirror of Verity

  Usage: Channel qi and gaze within. It reveals true aura: black for wickedness, white for heaven’s favor. Liars glow red—deeper hue for deeper deceit. Supernatural beings cast no reflection.

  Limitless use. Cannot be blocked.

  Han Sen channeled qi.

  Lifted the mirror.

  His reflection shone framed in pure white light—steady, unwavering.

  Satisfaction settled quietly within.

  He returned each item to the pouch.

  Now he could know their worth.

  Not mere curiosities.

  Tools.

  For a world growing darker.

  The dragon, alone in the capital’s heart, prepared for shadows yet unseen.

  While the Wei River flowed on beneath his window, carrying whispers of greater storms to come.