The dock was already alive with sound—wood creaking, seagulls squawking, and the chaotic banter of fishermen unloading their morning catch. But none of them had quite the same problem as Aithur.
His rickety boat dragged itself to the shore like it had survived a war—and, to be fair, it kind of had. Stacked to the brim with wriggling, glistening fish, the boat looked like it had committed a crime against the lake and was now smuggling the evidence.
Aithur, barefoot and soaked to the bones, leapt onto the dock with a grunt, a small fish flopping dramatically off his shoulder.
He tied the boat to a nearby pole like a man anchoring his trauma to something solid.
"By the lake's wrinkled cheeks, Aithur!" came the voice of Old Hem, a fellow fisher missing two front teeth and shame. He waddled over, staring at the fish like he'd never seen them before. "How'd you catch all that?! Did the fish just decide to surrender?"
Aithur's eye twitched.
"You ever get dropkicked by air itself?" he snapped, wiping fish scales off his brow.
Hem blinked.
"No?"
"You ever feel your soul twitch because three glowsticks with god complexes decided to turn the lake into their sparring arena?"
"…Huh?"
"I watched a sword scream at another sword and explode. I got smacked by a wave made of lightning. And all for what? Some golden plant I didn't even see!" Aithur flailed his arms. "These cursed fish jumped into my boat to escape! They panicked into my profits!"
Then, without warning, he grabbed a full basket of fish and hurled it into Hem's arms. The older man yelped, barely catching it as he stumbled back and nearly fell overboard.
"Take it! TAKE THE TRAUMA BASKET."
"HEY! I didn't mean—!"
But Aithur had already slung the remaining baskets onto his creaky wooden cart and stormed off, muttering curses at anyone in silk robes or dramatic cloaks.
The village market was a whirlwind of sound and smell. Banners flapped in the breeze above a sea of stalls selling everything from dried roots to jade trinkets to mysterious meats you didn't ask questions about.
Aithur's cart groaned beneath the weight of fish, much like his patience.
"Wake up early, they said," he muttered. "Fish in the calm lake, they said. Not explode by sword flash and get pelted with Qi-blasts like a cat in a lightning storm."
He passed a vendor selling lotus dumplings.
"Get rich feeding the village!" Aithur hissed mockingly. "You know what feeds the village? ME. You know what almost killed me? Sparkle-fueled karate nerds!"
He shook his head.
He hated cultivators.
It wasn't just today. It wasn't just the idiocy of yesterday's battle, where three cultivators tore the sky apart over a glowing herb. It was deeper. The kind of hatred that didn't need a reason anymore—it just was.
He and his sister, Liana, had been orphans as long as he could remember. The village chief once told them their parents were cultivators—wanderers who left to chase immortality and 'greater things.'
They left behind two screaming kids and a moldy shack.
Great parenting.
Aithur snorted. "Floating glitter addicts. What's so great about flying when you can't even bother raising your own kids?"
He turned a corner and arrived at a familiar stall nestled between a dried spice merchant and a man yelling about medicinal chicken feet.
"TIDE AND ROOTS – Fresh Meat and Veg!" the wooden sign read in flaking paint.
Inside, a girl with long navy-blue hair—tied in a braid that had defied several laws of gravity—was weighing vegetables. Her brown eyes gleamed with boredom as a few customers chatted nearby.
That was Liana, his sister, who ran the shop like a queen with no patience for fools.
Just as Aithur approached, a thickset man with a scar over his left eye stepped into the stall. He loomed over the hanging slabs of meat and poked one—hard.
Liana didn't even look up. "That's not a fruit jelly, musclehead."
The man frowned. "Just checking quality."
Liana raised an eyebrow, finally glancing up. "You poke your food at home before eating? Or just random strangers?"
The man's eyes narrowed. "You don't look like much of a butcher. Where's the man in charge?"
Liana let out a low whistle. "Ah, sexism. It's like bad breath—you never expect it until it hits you."
"I said I'm not buying from a brat."
Liana smiled sweetly. "Oh good, because I'm not selling to a lumpy turnip with anger issues."
Gasps echoed from the nearby crowd. A few marketgoers paused their shopping, watching with bated breath. One of them took out a skewer of roasted eel and started chewing slower. Another quietly passed coins to his friend, murmuring, "Ten gold on the girl."
The man growled and stepped forward.
"You think you can talk to me like—"
Thunk.
Too late.
Liana's hand grabbed the front of his shirt with such speed it practically clapped the air.
She heaved him upward with ease, spun on her heel, and hurled him out of the stall like a sack of undercooked pork.
He landed three stalls down in a pile of turnips. The vendor there sighed and began collecting his now-squished produce.
The watching crowd barely flinched.
"Oh, she did it again," one elderly woman mumbled, going back to picking tomatoes.
Another merchant snorted. "That's the third this week."
Even the eel guy just nodded and took another bite.
It was... normal.
Liana dusted off her palms and turned, only then noticing Aithur standing nearby with a blank expression and a fish hanging from his ear.
"Oh," she said, smirking. "Didn't see you there."
Aithur blinked. "You threw him."
She shrugged. "He poked the beef."
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Liana walked over, hands on her hips, then did a slow once-over. "You look like a drowned rat that lost a fight with seaweed."
Aithur just sighed. "It was a bad morning."
"Oh?"
"Cultivators."
Liana grinned. "So… you met some?"
Aithur's face curled like a spoiled lemon.
"I hate you."
She snorted. "You screamed again, didn't you? Was it the sword? It's always the swords."
"It wasn't a scream. It was a tactical retreat call."
"Right. Like the one you made last month when that turtle bit you."
"That turtle knew martial arts."
Liana laughed, wiping a tear. "Poor baby. Want a napkin for your trauma?"
"I want silence. And a world without Qi."
She clapped his back. "Keep dreaming, fishmonger."
He groaned. "Can we just sell the fish?"
Liana took the cart handle from him.
"Sure. But first, tell me everything. Don't leave out the part where you fell off the boat again."
"I didn't—!"