From a distance, Dai An could already hear it—the low roar of voices, the rising laughter, the rhythmic clatter of wheels and hooves. By the time he reached the massive wooden gates of Huiyang Town, the sound had become a living thing, pulsing through the air. The gates themselves loomed tall, carved with intricate patterns that spoke of wealth and care, the kind of craftsmanship his village could never afford.
Crossing the threshold was like stepping into another world. Warm air washed over him, carrying the mingled scents of roasting peanuts, steamed dumplings, and spiced broth simmering in great iron pots. The aromas curled against his skin, rich and inviting.
The streets were lined with sturdy, well-built houses, their tiled roofs and painted beams forming a tapestry of color and shape. Despite their refinement, the buildings radiated a warmth that made the town feel alive and welcoming. Children darted past him in a blur of laughter, weaving between vendors who shouted to draw attention to bolts of silk, gleaming trinkets, or baskets piled high with fruit.
Women gathered in doorways, voices lilting as they gossiped; nearby, men gestured broadly, debating politics over cups of hot wine. The whole town seemed to thrum with energy—every voice, every step, every sound layered together into a kind of harmonious chaos.
Dai An could not help the thrill bubbling in his chest. Even the largest neighboring towns he had visited before felt small compared to this place. Huiyang was alive in a way he had never seen—loud, colorful, and endlessly moving. His heart warmed as he walked deeper into the streets, though he reminded himself he could not linger. Time and coin were luxuries he did not have. This was a crossroad town, and he was only passing through on his way to the border.
Still, he allowed himself small indulgences. He stole glances at the food vendors, savoring the smell of sizzling skewers and steaming buns, nodding in greeting when the merchants met his gaze. He chuckled when a little boy barreled down the street, tripped over his own feet, and popped back up red-faced to the laughter of his playmates. His ears pricked at every passing voice—gossip, jokes, and even politics flying like sparrows through the air.
Two women sat by a stall, their voices sharp with mischief:
"Did you hear? Madam Chen's daughter was seen walking with the blacksmith's apprentice again—at dusk, no less!"
"Walking? Hah, if her father finds out, that poor boy won't have legs to walk on anymore."
They both cackled, fanning themselves as if the scandal itself was a summer breeze.
Not far ahead, a pair of men huddled over cups of cheap wine.
"I'm telling you, the palace needs to be more transparent!" one said, voice pitched a little too loudly.
"Shh, keep your voice down," his companion hissed, glancing around nervously.
"Still, some clans are growing restless…" another muttered from the next table.
Dai An continued down the street, weaving through the crowd. The deeper he went, the more he noticed it—not just the bustle of merchants and travelers, but the sheer, uncanny number of guards. Their presence was impossible to ignore.
They moved in small units, their spears upright and gleaming under the sun. Their armor was plain but sturdy—layered lamellar plates strapped tight with leather, polished enough to reflect the light. Each man wore a red tassel at his shoulder, the mark of the kingdom, and their black boots struck the ground in crisp rhythm as they paced.
"Do they normally post this many guards in a town?" he muttered under his breath. He had never set foot in a city this large, so he could not be sure. But something in his gut told him this was not normal.
The guards patrolled the streets in pairs, inspected wagons with sharp eyes, and stopped travelers at random to demand papers or open bundles. Even mounted officers rode through from time to time, their horses snorting dust, black cloaks trailing, lacquered breastplates etched with the crest of Beiyue flashing in the light.
But what unsettled Dai An most was not just the sheer amount of guards, but also the townsfolk behavior. They act as though nothing was unusual. Or rather, they pretended. When guards passed, merchants suddenly found reason to tidy their stalls, voices dropping mid-shout as though their throats had dried. Shoppers bent their heads lower, pretending to examine goods. Even the children quieted, clinging to their mothers' sleeves until the patrol had moved on. Outwardly, everyone looked calm—faces neutral, movements measured—but the tension was clear in the stiffness of their shoulders, in the way their eyes flicked quickly aside.
It was like a game of silence, an unspoken pact: ignore the guards, pretend they are part of the air itself. But in doing so, the weight of their presence only grew heavier.
Sensing the strange weight in the air, Dai An decided it was better to measure the situation before doing anything reckless. He drifted toward the side of the street and leaned casually against a wooden pole, pretending to rest. From there, he let his gaze wander, watching the ebb and flow of people as though he were no more than a weary traveler with time to spare.
Carts rattled past, some piled with sacks of grain, others with baskets of goods bound for the border. He eyed each one, wondering if he might find a chance to hitch a ride, though none yet seemed inviting. Instead, he studied the movements around him—the Border Guards with their dark armor gleaming, the clansmen keeping their voices hushed, the merchants forcing smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes.
The more he observed, the clearer it became: the town was moving, but not freely. Everyone was pretending not to notice the heaviness around them. Dai An folded his arms and stayed put, waiting, watching, biding his moment until the right cart—or perhaps the right person—might pass his way.
Outside a silk shop, two finely dressed young men passed by, their robes embroidered with the crests of a prominent Beiyue clan. Their steps were leisurely, almost arrogant, their retainers trailing close behind with arms full of lacquered boxes. Now and then came the faint clink of jade or talismans shifting inside.
From where Dai An leaned, a pair of townsfolk nearby lowered their voices as they watched the young men go.
"Another two of them," one murmured. "Seems like every year, more young masters take it upon themselves to become a Jingzhe."
The other clicked his tongue. "Hmph. It's a trend now, isn't it? Families sending their heirs south to learn from the Nanyang masters. Who would've thought Beiyue clans would be so eager?"
Dai An frowned slightly, curiosity getting the better of him. "How do you know they're jingzhe?" he asked quietly, tilting his chin toward the passing figures.
The first man gave him a sidelong glance, then pointed subtly. "See the token at their waists? Small, iron-carved, strapped to the sash. Only those officially recognized as jingzhe can wear one. You'll never mistake it."
Sure enough, as the robes shifted with their steps, Dai An caught sight of a dull glint—a token etched with patterns he didn't understand.
The two young men strode past the guards, heads high and expressions composed, giving no acknowledgment. The guards in turn barely moved, maintaining their stoic posture, offering no glance.
A stiff silence clung to the air, the kind that makes every measured step feel heavier. Even tho no one spoke, the invisible line between authority and privilege was sharp, and Dai An could almost feel it pressing against the two young masters—respect, suspicion, and restraint all tangled in a quiet, unspoken tension.
"Tch, since when does a clan need cleansing arts? That used to be Palace business," one of the men muttered, his tone sharp with disdain.
"Mark my words, this won't end well," the other replied darkly. "The Palace won't sit quietly while the clans meddle in what's not theirs. There'll be trouble."
A third voice, older and rougher, let out a humorless laugh. "Hah. Trouble's already here—you just can't see it yet."
At once his companion hushed him, eyes flicking nervously toward the Border Guards posted at the corner.
Dai An shifted his stance getting more curios. "Why is it such a problem?" he asked, lowering his voice. "If the clans wish to learn, what harm does it bring?"
The men exchanged uneasy looks. One scratched at his neck, the other busied himself with adjusting the strap of his satchel, as though pretending he hadn't heard. Finally, the older man gave a small shake of his head.
"Best not to ask too much, boy. Just know the air between the Palace and the noble clans isn't as calm as it looks. That's all anyone dares to say."
Dai An hummed in understanding. Around them, the lively noise of Huiyang carried on—vendors shouting, carts rattling, children laughing. Yet beneath it all lingered a quiet undercurrent, a tension no one could name.
*****
Dai An kept his eyes on the border gate, studying every cart, carriage, and traveler as they passed through. He noticed how the guards treated each group differently—merchants with bulky loads of grain or cloth were waved through with minimal fuss, while smaller private carriages, carrying no obvious goods, were stopped repeatedly. The occupants were questioned at length, their patience tested as the guards rifled through the carts and scrutinized their every move. The difference was clear: anything that didn't serve an obvious trade or commercial purpose drew suspicion.
After watching for a while, Dai An spotted a cart laden with sacks of dried herbs and woven mats—plain, common goods, nothing flashy. The guards barely glanced at it, their attention focused elsewhere. Seeing his opportunity, Dai An made up his mind. This would be his ride. He approached the cart cautiously, stepping along the edge of the road, blending with the flow of travelers, ready to ask for a lift toward the Border, keeping his movements natural so as not to draw undue attention from the ever-watchful guards.
"Excuse me, sir," Dai An called out, keeping his voice respectful. "I need to reach Nanyang. Might I… accompany your cart for the journey?"
The merchant raised an eyebrow, glancing at the boy. "Nanyang? That's a long way. Not many travelers get a ride all the way through, especially someone without goods of their own."
Dai An nodded eagerly. "I can pay a fair fare, or help with the loading, unloading—anything to make it worth your trouble."
The merchant stroked his beard, considering him for a moment. "Hmph… very well. You may ride with us, but keep your head low and don't get in the way. Nanyang's a long road, and I don't need distractions."
"Thank you, sir!" Dai An said, bowing slightly. He climbed onto the cart carefully, settling himself among the sacks.
And as he had anticipated, they slipped past the guards effortlessly, their cart rolling steadily down the winding path leading toward the border.
*****
Their cart rattled along the forest path, the rhythmic clatter of wooden wheels mingling with the occasional bray of donkeys and the shuffle of hooves. Around them, the road felt alive—other carts jostled past, their drivers shouting brief greetings or haggling over space, the scent of herbs, grain, and firewood drifting from their loads. Leaves rustled under the weight of passing wheels, and puddles splashed with every stomp of hooves, sending up a fine mist that hung briefly in the cool air.
But gradually, one by one, the other carts thinned out, turning off toward side paths or slowing behind him. The sounds of chatter, animals, and splashing faded, leaving only the steady creak of their own wheels.
They finally reached the outer border post, a small clearing marked by a sturdy wooden gate. A handful of guards stood there, leaning against posts or adjusting their gear. Unlike the alert and orderly guards in town, these men seemed heavier with fatigue, their faces lined with weariness and dark circles under their eyes.
As their cart approached, one of the guards stepped forward, voice rough but controlled. "State your business. Where are you headed?"
"We're passing through," the merchant said, bowing slightly. "Delivering goods to the next town."
The guard's eyes narrowed, scanning the cart and its contents. "What kind of goods?"
"Just rice, dried herbs, and a few linens," the merchant replied.
Another guard pinched the corners of his eyes, peering at Dai An and the driver. "No passengers without papers?" he asked, half-gruff, half-formal.
"They're all accounted for, sir," the driver said quickly, gesturing to Dai An.
After a moment of scrutiny, the guards stepped aside, letting the cart move through. Their expressions betrayed no relief—only a subtle acknowledgment that the formalities were satisfied. The weary pinches of their eyes, the small gestures, spoke more authority than any words could.
As they crossed into Nanyang, Dai An's eyes lingered on the guards behind him. With one arm crossed behind his head, he scoffed.
"They're just guarding. Why do they look as if life itself has been sucked out of them?"
But before he could dwell further, a damp breath of air swept over him—cold and sharp, threading through his sleeves and settling deep into his bones. Instinctively, he folded his arms around himself, though it did little to hold back the chill.
A frown formed between his brows as Dai An scanned his surroundings. The wheels of the cart creaked quietly, followed by the soft rustling of leaves and, occasionally, the distant cry of some small animal. Hovering over them are trees with their branches intertwining and hugging one another. Only slivers of light pierced the canopy
Through the narrow gaps, he glimpsed the sky—a dull, gloomy gray, heavy with the promise of rain. Otherwise, the forest seemed no different from where they had first set foot, yet there was something subtly oppressive here. The trees seemed to loom closer, almost as if the very forest wished to intimidate him, to swallow him whole.
Dai An tightened his grip around his arms, unwilling to appear rattled. Faint whispers of wind stirred somewhere deep in the forest, carrying an almost imperceptible scent of wet earth and decaying foliage. His nose wrinkled as he tried to shake off the brackish, damp scent in the air. He drew a sharp breath, glancing suspiciously at the unseen currents around him, as if the air had thickened and become moss itself, trying to suffocate him.
The merchant seemed to notice the change in Dai An's demeanor.
"Is this your first time here, boy?" he asked, the corner of his mouth tugging slightly.
"That's right," Dai An replied, swiping at his robe in a small attempt to look more nonchalant.
"Don't worry about it. This is just how it is here," the merchant reassured him.
Dai An glanced at him, a few thoughts crossing his mind.
The cart rattled steadily down the path, wheels crunching over roots and stones as it cut through the looming trees. As they neared the forest's edge, Dai An noticed a thin veil of fog beginning to curl around them. It wasn't thick, but enough to make him notice it.
When they finally emerged from the forest, understanding dawned upon him on what the merchant had meant. Though they were no longer under the shadow of the trees, the sky above was just as heavy—threatening for rains as the clouds swallowed the sun, barely letting any sunlight pass through.
"I thought this place would be much brighter and not so… depressing," Dai An muttered, leaning more comfortably against the cart now that they'd passed the forest.
"I suppose a lot of people would think that way," the merchant said thoughtfully. "Some say it used to be bright here. Brighter even than Beiyue."
"Guess the weather's sulking," Dai An joked lightly.
"Guess they do—thanks to the spirits of the dead," the merchant said solemnly.
"Particularly after what happened eighteen years ago."
Dai An didn't respond right away. He softly tapped his fingers against the wooden cart, eyes narrowing. Of course he knew what exactly the merchant reffering to. Everyone did. Even in his isolated village, the tale had reached him—whispered by elders at dusk, repeated as cautionary stories before bed. He had heard it countless times.
He never believed a word of it.
Ridiculous.
That's what he thought. And yet, no matter how he tried to dismiss it, the story always left a faint tug in his chest—an ache he could never quite explain.
He turned and let his gaze linger on the forest. The trees loomed behind them like dark sentinels, their twisted branches reaching as though to seize and pull the cart back. Of course, it was nothing more than an illusion—his mind playing tricks. As the cart rattled on, the towering shapes began to recede, the trees shrinking little by little. And for some reason the stillness of that forest doesnt feel unfamiliar.