The first few days in the Carrion District were a lesson in brutal efficiency. Wei An learned to move through the slum like a wraith, his senses his greatest asset. He learned which gangs controlled which alleys, where the beggars with communicable diseases huddled together, and the precise moment when the morning fog was thickest, providing perfect cover for movement.
He was a scavenger. The slow, ambient drip of death in the slum was just enough to keep the gnawing hunger in his dantian from becoming debilitating. A street fight here, an overdose on cheap hallucinogenic herbs there—each small tragedy was a meager scrap for him. It kept him alive, but it did nothing for his cultivation. The energy was too weak, too tainted with despair. Circulating it through his meridians to temper his skin was like trying to polish stone with muddy water. It was a net loss.
He needed a better source. He needed the death of the strong.
To find it, he needed information, and he quickly learned that in the slums, information was a currency as valuable as food. Whispers in the dark alleys all pointed to one place: a tavern known as the Ragged Lantern. It was the heart of the Carrion District's underworld, a place where mercenaries, spies, and information brokers gathered to trade secrets over mugs of watered-down ale.
There was just one problem: he was penniless. He couldn't afford a drink, let alone a conversation. For a day, he wrestled with his conscience, but survival was a harsh master. His morality, already a murky and pragmatic thing, bent to necessity.
His target was a low-level thug, a brute who extorted protection money from the local street vendors. Wei An shadowed him for an hour, studying his habits, his swagger, the way his hand rested possessively on the coin purse at his belt. Using the agility granted by his cultivation and the stealth of his Wraith Step, he waited for the man to pass through a crowded, narrow market street. In the jostle of the crowd, Wei An's movement was a flicker, a brief, imperceptible touch. His thin fingers were deft and sure. By the time the thug realized his purse was lighter, Wei An was gone, melted back into the slum's labyrinth with a handful of copper and a few small silver coins. The guilt was a dull stone in his gut, but the coins were cold and real in his hand.
That evening, he pushed open the creaking, splintered door of the Ragged Lantern. The tavern was a pit. The air was thick with the smell of cheap booze, unwashed bodies, and something acrid that might have been despair. Dozens of patrons were crammed into the dimly lit space, their faces hardened by life, their eyes sharp and suspicious. A one-eyed bartender cleaned a mug with a filthy rag, ignoring the brawl that was brewing in a far corner.
Wei An found an empty stool in the darkest part of the room, ordered a mug of the cheapest ale, and made himself as unnoticeable as possible. Then, he simply listened.
He filtered out the drunken boasts and miserable complaints, focusing on the whispers that held value. He heard of a bounty on a rogue wolf that was preying on livestock outside the city walls. He heard of a merchant looking for cheap, expendable guards for a dangerous caravan route. He heard a spy trying to sell information on the patrol schedules of the city guard.
None of it was right for him. He needed death, not work.
His attention was snagged by a conversation at a nearby table. Three burly men, clad in scuffed leather armor and carrying an assortment of crude weapons, were complaining loudly.
"…a complete waste of time!" one of them growled, slamming his mug down. "Three days we spent in those cursed catacombs, hunting those damn Grave Rats. And for what? A handful of silver that barely covers our expenses. I smell worse than a corpse."
"It's better than the alternative, Kael," another replied, a man with a scarred face. "At least it's honest work. It's not like we can get a contract from the Adventurer's Guild. They wouldn't spit on us if we were on fire."
The third man shuddered. "I'd rather hunt rats for a year than take a 'Cleaner's Contract' at the arena. Gods, can you imagine? Spending your nights mopping up cultivator blood and hauling away… pieces. They say the job curses your luck."
Wei An's entire body went rigid. He strained his ears, focusing on their conversation with an intensity that bordered on painful.
The scarred man, Kael, snorted. "Luck? It's a job for ghouls and the desperate. But the pay is steady, I'll give it that. The Golden Arena always needs Cleaners. Those high-and-mighty cultivators love putting on a show, and shows are messy."
The first man spat on the floor. "Let them find some other poor sod. I'm not touching a cultivator's corpse. Their energy lingers, they say. Drives a man mad."
Their energy lingers.
The words struck Wei An like a bolt of lightning. A sudden, profound clarity washed over him, so intense it made him dizzy. An arena. A place where cultivators, strong and brimming with potent life force, fought each other. Sometimes, they fought to the death. And afterward, someone had to clean up. Someone had to dispose of the bodies.
A job that everyone else saw as a cursed, soul-staining nightmare was, for him, a paradise. A dining hall. A place that would provide a steady, reliable supply of the highest quality Remnant Essence he could possibly imagine. The lingering energy they feared was the very thing he craved.
He slowly let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The noise of the tavern faded into a dull roar. The path forward, which had been a murky, uncertain track, was now a wide, sun-drenched avenue. He knew what he had to do.
He finished his ale in one gulp, the foul taste barely registering. He placed a few copper coins on the sticky table and walked out of the Ragged Lantern, leaving the den of whispers behind. His posture was different. The slump of the beggar boy was gone, replaced by the straight-backed purpose of a hunter who had just found the richest hunting ground in the world.
He was going to the Golden Arena. And he was going to apply for the one job that every other person in Silver-Mist City would rather die than take.
Author's Note:
And there we have it! The path is clear. Our boy Wei An is heading for the Golden Arena. This is a massive turning point for him, moving from a scavenger of scraps to someone with access to a prime source of cultivation resources.
But what do you think this will entail? Will they even hire a skinny, unknown kid? What horrors and wonders will he witness in an arena where cultivators battle? Most importantly, how will he absorb the Remnant Essence of the fallen without his secret being exposed? The risks are about to get so much bigger!
Drop a comment with your predictions! Get ready, because the next chapter will take us to the gates of the Golden Arena itself!