Lao Ren

  Lao Ren had spent a lifetime mastering the delicate art of transactions, and of understanding human nature. His life had been a careful balance of profit and loss, risk and reward. He had bargained in the finest silk halls of Bei’An, spoken in hushed whispers with men who controlled more wealth than entire cities, and bartered with ruthless traders who could smile and slit your throat in the same breath.

  And yet, never had he stood so close to calamity.

  The battle had ended. The world had stilled. The air hung thick with its aftermath—scorched earth, the pungent scent of burnt flesh, and the heavy silence of finality.

  The qi barrier was gone now, its divine radiance faded like a dream. But the memory of it remained, lingering in the air like a trace of thunder after the storm.

  Lao Ren trembled, his palms pressed into the dirt, his breath uneven from the bandit's earlier blow. His boy still clung to his mother’s robes, muffling his quiet sobs, while his wife shuddered against him, her face pale and tear-streaked. But Lao Ren’s gaze did not waver.

  He was transfixed.

  The cultivator’s silk robes fluttered lightly in the breeze, unmarked by dust and blood. His dark hair, wavy and untethered, swayed against the wind’s pull. Yet it was not his unearthly composure, nor his untouched garments, that made Lao Ren’s breath still.

  It was his eyes.

  Black-gold, burning low in the twilight and everfire lanterns—a gaze that held something ancient, something that weighed the world and found it wanting. Lao Ren’s instincts, sharpened by years of dealings, whispered to him now—this was no ordinary cultivator.

  Lao Ren had known cultivators. He had done business with them—rogue disciples, wandering swordsmen, and even a few sect elders. But they were men of earthly ambition, always asking, always taking, perceiving the lives of mortals to be transient. After all, the average cultivator lived many lifespans, unchanged as numerous generations of mortals ebbed and flowed. For these beings of which the fates decreed, concepts such as honor, righteousness, cruelty, and pride held a different meaning than for mortals.

  Regarding this particular cultivator, Lao Ren was clear on what he had to do. Lao Ren may be shrewd, but he also knew honor - and opportunity. A debt must be repaid, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t stand to profit at the same time.

  He forced himself to move.

  Lao Ren swallowed, his throat dry, and pressed his forehead against the earth. His voice came hoarse but firm. Without any bidding, Lao Ren’s wife prostrated herself as well. In times like these, Lao Ren was grateful he had chosen to marry a wise woman and not the babbling, airheaded beauty whom his parents had wanted to match him with all those years ago.

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  "Esteemed Cultivator," he rasped. "You have done a great deed, vanquishing these outlaws and saving our humble lives. For that we of the Lao family are forever in your debt. May I ask how we can repay you, Great Savior?"

  A rustling of fabric, then a voice—calm, effortless, almost indifferent.

  “If I had to be honest, I don’t think I had to do much at all…they practically blew themselves up," the cultivator replied, casting a glance toward the charred corpses.

  Lao Ren lifted his head slightly, studying him carefully and perceiving.

  "While that may be true," he said with deliberate reverence, "it does not lessen the fact that you chose to come to our aid, despite having no such obligation. Please allow me to offer you something of worth as a token of my gratitude. I am Lao Ren, a merchant of Bei’An. I trade in the finest silks, rarest spiritual teas, and the most sought-after goods in all of Bei’Ping province. If you require spirit stones, I can offer it in abundance. If you require treasures, I can procure them. You have only to name your request, and if it is within my power, I shall fulfill it.”

  For a long moment, the cultivator said nothing. His gaze drifted, not toward Lao Ren, nor the corpses, but toward the glow bugs gathered at the forest’s edge, their golden light pulsing softly against the dusk.

  His expression was unreadable. Not cold, but distant, as if he straddled two realms, one foot in this world and another somewhere far beyond.

  Lao Ren held his breath, willing his racing heart to steady itself. The cultivator did not seem like the kind to haggle over coin, but Lao Ren knew men—all men, mortal or not, sought something. Power, knowledge, security, purpose, companionship. And if there was one thing Lao Ren had learned over the years, it was that the greatest transactions were not measured in mere currency, but in favors, alliances, and opportunities.

  At last, the cultivator spoke.

  “I appreciate your sincerity," he said. "It would be rude of me to refuse your goodwill. But truthfully, I’m not yet sure of what I need. Perhaps if you give me some time, I’ll come up with a reasonable request.”

  Lao Ren nodded, his shoulders easing ever so slightly. A fair arrangement.

  “Then it shall be done,” he said smoothly. It was better this way—debts, when left unattended, had a way of souring even the best of men. And a Lao always made sure to pay his debts.

  The cultivator’s gaze drifted once more, this time towards the damaged caravan. "You’re headed somewhere?"

  Lao Ren inclined his head. "Yes, my family and I are returning home to Bei’An."

  Lao Ren hesitated, then pressed forward. "The roads have become perilous of late. Bandits prey upon merchants like locusts upon a ripened field, and the city patrols have long since abandoned the outskirts. If I may be so bold as to make another request…"

  The cultivator gave a slow nod. Permission to continue.

  Lao Ren did not waste it.

  “I humbly request your accompaniment and protection to the gates of Bei’An. Upon our arrival, I shall compensate you fairly, in accordance with the market rates of the city. This will also give you time to consider your request in full.”

  Another pause. Then—

  “I’ll come with you.”

  The feeling of relief and anticipation flooded through Lao Ren, though he kept his face composed. He dipped into another bow, deeper this time.

  Then, just as he turned to give instructions to his wife and child, the cultivator added, “One more thing, Merchant Lao.”

  Lao Ren stilled, tilting his head attentively.

  “I prefer to travel discreetly,” the cultivator said simply. "Privacy is important to me."

  He smiled knowingly.

  "Of course," he said, bowing once more. "As you wish, Esteemed One."