By dawn, Alaric's shoulder throbbed beneath fresh bindings.
The pain had settled deep and slow, no longer sharp enough to jolt him awake, but persistent enough to punish every careless breath. When he shifted on the narrow bed, heat flared through muscle and bone, dragging a low hiss from between his teeth.
He sat up slowly and reached for the pill.
The moment it dissolved on his tongue, bitterness flooded his mouth. Heat followed, burning its way down his throat. His stomach lurched violently. For a heartbeat, he nearly retched, fingers digging into the edge of the basin until the wave passed.
Sloppy, he thought.
Relying on pills this early was not fatal—but it was dangerous if it became habit.
The copper he carried now was not everything he owned.
He never brought everything into a city.
Before dawn, he had quietly exchanged fragments taken from the ruins—dull relic scraps and warped tokens no one wanted traced—through hands that asked no questions. Each exchange had cost him value. Each had bought silence. What remained beyond that stayed buried outside the settlement, hidden where formations did not reach and memory mattered more than flesh.
He kept only enough on his person to survive scrutiny.
Alaric tightened the bindings around his shoulder again. Beneath the layers of cloth, the foundation stirred uneasily, circulation uneven and stubborn. Forcing it now would only make things worse.
He stood.
Outside, the settlement had changed overnight.
Guards stood at intersections where there had been none before. Cultivators lingered too long along the main roads, posture loose but attention sharp. Even the air felt different—tense, alert, as if the town itself had been warned to watch more closely.
Search behavior.
The alley fight had not been forgotten. It had been cataloged.
If he hid, the net would tighten.
If he fled, his injury would slow him.
Alaric turned toward the registration pavilion.
It stood at the center of the settlement like a declaration—clean stone, engraved pillars, formations humming softly beneath the floor. Order made visible. A place where deviation was not punished immediately, but labeled and constrained.
A line had already formed.
He joined it.
When it was his turn, the clerk didn't look up.
"Name?"
"Alaric."
The stylus paused.
"Origin?"
"Unregistered."
That earned him attention.
The clerk raised his head, eyes sharp now. "Step forward."
Alaric did.
The formation activated.
It brushed across him—longer than before, deeper. Not aggressive, but insistent, like fingers testing the outline of something unfamiliar. His foundation tightened instinctively.
Not in resistance.
In adjustment.
The array flickered once.
Then again.
The clerk frowned. "…Provisional tag."
A dull metal token slid across the counter.
"Seven days," the clerk said flatly. "Restricted movement. No high-grade auctions. Any violation voids protection."
Alaric picked it up.
Cold.
Heavy.
A leash.
"And if I refuse?" he asked.
The clerk's gaze flicked briefly toward the guards stationed nearby. "Then you're escorted out."
Out meant the road. Or the ruins. Or worse.
Alaric pocketed the token. "Understood."
Eyes followed him as he turned away—not hostile, not curious. Measuring.
The auction hall lay ahead, half-buried into the eastern quarter. Notices had been freshly posted beside the entrance.
Today's listings:
Low-grade spirit metals.Foundation herbs.A fractured beast core.
Alaric slowed.
The fracture pattern was wrong—not eroded by age, not shattered by force. The internal structure had simply stopped forming, as if the refinement process had been interrupted and never resumed.
To most cultivators, that made it worthless. An unstable core couldn't be refined cleanly, couldn't power formations safely, couldn't be absorbed without risking collapse.
To Alaric, it was something else entirely.
An unfinished structure did not resist change. It could be studied, dismantled, corrected—or allowed to adapt.
It was not power.
It was a possibility.
He entered.
The hall buzzed with restrained energy. Cultivators filled the tiered seating, voices low, eyes sharp. Money and intent moved freely here, bound only by formations etched deep into the stone.
"Next item," the auctioneer announced brightly, lifting a cloth from a dull, uneven core. "A damaged beast core. Cheap—but unstable."
Laughter rippled through the hall.
"Scrap."
"Only a fool would—"
"I'll take it," Alaric said.
At base price.
More laughter followed.
A young man in embroidered robes turned, smiling thinly. His gaze flicked immediately to the dull metal token at Alaric's waist.
"You?" he asked lazily. "With that tag?"
"Yes," Alaric replied.
"I bid double," the man said without effort.
"Triple," Alaric replied.
A second voice joined in. "Five times."
The room stirred.
Alaric's fingers tightened against the bench. That amount scraped dangerously close to what he could afford. One mistake, and he would leave with nothing—no margin left to survive mistakes.
"You should stop," the embroidered cultivator said softly. "This isn't your place."
Alaric looked at the beast core again.
At the unfinished structure others dismissed as damage.
"Six," he said.
Silence fell.
The second bidder hesitated, then shook his head.
The embroidered cultivator's smile thinned. He did not bid again.
"Sold," the auctioneer said quickly.
As the core was brought forward, Alaric felt the weight settle in—not relief, but consequence.
He had won.
And nearly bled dry doing it.
Across the hall, a pair of elders exchanged a glance.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Names were already being remembered.