The Silver Dragon hovered invisibly above the valley, cloaked in silence. Clouds drifted lazily overhead, but none could hide the feeling of anticipation pressing down on Krish's chest. He stood by the open hatch, his travel cloak wrapped around him, the warm wind tugging at its edges as he studied the town below.
It wasn't large—more of a settlement clinging stubbornly to survival. A stone wall, barely three men high, encircled it like a child's attempt at fortification. Watchtowers made of timber leaned in odd angles, and a dirt road carved a crooked path through the main gates. Yet despite its humble defenses, the town pulsed with life. Thin trails of smoke rose into the sky, merchants' voices carried even to this height, and faint flickers of spiritual energy teased Krish's senses.
"Stealth protocol engaged," RC reported, his voice steady in Krish's ear. "The Silver Dragon will remain cloaked and in standby until your return. Probability of detection: less than two percent."
Krish adjusted the hood of his cloak. In the polished steel wall beside him, he caught his reflection. The young man who had once been a reader of cultivation novels on Earth was gone. His eyes had sharpened, his jaw hardened. Where there had once been hesitation, now there was only resolve.
"Stay hidden, RC. Scan the town and keep feeding me data," he ordered.
"Understood," RC replied without pause.
Krish leapt from the hatch. The ground rushed up to meet him, but he landed lightly on the hillside outside the town walls, rolling once before springing to his feet. Dust clung to his boots as he straightened, cloak flowing behind him. He inhaled deeply—the scent of wood smoke, livestock, and freshly tilled earth filled his lungs.
He moved with purpose but kept to the shadows of rocks and trees. Two guards leaned lazily against spears at the gate, their leather armor cracked with age. One stifled a yawn; the other scratched his chin and looked at the horizon with glazed eyes. They were sharp enough to spot bandits or wolves, but blind to the kind of presence Krish carried. With careful steps, he slipped along the wall and scaled a low section where vines had overgrown the stones.
The town opened before him like a page from one of the novels he had once read.
Stone-paved streets twisted between rows of wooden houses with tiled roofs. The central square buzzed with life: farmers laid out vegetables, hunters sold beast pelts, blacksmiths hammered iron into tools, and herbalists displayed jars filled with dried roots and faintly glowing herbs. The air was thick with the mingling scents of meat skewers, incense, and sweat.
Children darted between the stalls, wooden swords clashing in mock duels as they shouted, "I'm the sect master!" and "No, I'm stronger!" Their laughter was bright, but even their play revealed how deeply the idea of cultivation was woven into this world.
Krish crouched on a rooftop, observing. His eyes narrowed as he picked out the faint flows of energy within the crowd. Most people were ordinary mortals, their spiritual sparks dim and untrained. Yet here and there, individuals glowed brighter—cultivators. A middle-aged man selling beast hides radiated a steady aura, his hands scarred from years of combat. A woman arranging talismans hummed with spiritual energy woven into her flesh. Even the guards on the street corners carried the faint beginnings of cultivation, their spirits hardened just enough to stand taller than mortals.
Krish's heart quickened. "So this is cultivation in practice," he murmured. "They live in realms of strength, even at this level."
He pulled his cloak tighter and descended from the rooftop, slipping into the crowd. His movements were measured, deliberate—calm enough to appear ordinary, but never sluggish. He passed by stalls without drawing notice, blending into the flow of trade.
At a tea stall shaded by a patched canopy, Krish paused. The stall owner, an old man with a crooked back and clouded eyes, greeted him warmly.
"Tea for a weary traveler?" the old man asked, voice rasping yet kind.
Krish nodded and placed a few copper coins on the counter—spoils taken from a bandit's pouch during his earlier journeys. The old man accepted them without suspicion, pouring steaming liquid into a clay cup.
"First time here, stranger?" the stall owner asked with a curious smile.
Krish took the cup, savoring the warmth against his hands. "Passing through. What place is this?"
The old man chuckled, his beard shaking. "You're standing in Stone Fang Town, lad. A small place, but safe under the protection of the Iron Fang Sect. Not that they lift a finger unless you've spirit stones to offer."
Krish's brow lifted slightly. "Iron Fang Sect?"
The old man leaned closer, lowering his voice. "A minor sect. They control these lands—our trade, our safety, even the beasts in the valley. Their disciples hunt spirit beasts, guard caravans, and enforce their rules. If you're strong, you join them. If you're weak…" His eyes darkened. "…you live under their shadow."
Krish sipped his tea slowly, memorizing every word. He had read about sects, clans, and cultivation empires in novels, but now he was in a world where they were real—where strength determined law, and spirit stones were the lifeblood of power.
The stall owner hesitated, then added in a hushed tone, "Be careful, stranger. Outsiders draw attention here. Especially those who walk with confidence."
Krish offered a faint smile. "Thank you for the warning."
Before he could rise, a ripple of pressure rolled across the square. It was subtle to the untrained, but Krish felt it as clearly as a shift in the wind. He set the cup down, eyes narrowing.
From the far side of the market, three young men in matching grey robes strode forward. Their steps were heavy with arrogance, their auras sharp and unrestrained. Each wore the symbol of a fang stitched proudly across his chest.
"Iron Fang disciples," RC's voice whispered faintly through the smart watch hidden under Krish's sleeve.
The crowd parted instinctively, townsfolk lowering their heads as the disciples passed. The leader, a tall youth with a blade strapped to his back, swept his gaze across the market like a predator surveying prey. His eyes landed on Krish and narrowed.
"You there," the disciple said, his voice carrying easily across the square. "You walk too calmly for a mortal. What's your name, traveler?"
The market fell silent. Even the children's play ceased. Everyone knew what it meant to be noticed by sect disciples—danger, humiliation, or death.
Krish kept his hood low. "Just passing through."
The disciple's lips curled into a sneer. "A traveler with no name? Hiding your face, hiding your aura? Do you take us for fools?"
Krish remained still, though inside, his instincts sharpened. He could sense the man's cultivation—a stage above the ordinary guards, strong enough to crush mortals but far beneath the spirit beast he had just slain.
"You're no simple traveler," the disciple pressed, his hand falling to the hilt of his blade. "Reveal yourself. Or we'll make you."
The crowd shuffled back, whispers spreading like wildfire. "He's finished," someone muttered. "No one defies the Iron Fang."
Krish slowly lifted his head. The faintest smile tugged at his lips—not arrogance, but quiet certainty. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, locked with the disciple's.
"Careful," Krish said softly, his voice calm as still water. "You may not like what you find."
The air grew heavy, a tension like thunder before a storm. The disciples stiffened, sensing the weight behind his words. Even the old tea seller held his breath, eyes wide.
The first true clash between Krish and this world's cultivators was about to begin.
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