He tried a few more shops.
The first was a cramped tree-hollow run by a sharp-nosed woman who wore reading lenses shaped like crescents.
It also only had a map of Verdance and its immediate surroundings.
When Riven asked about maps covering the full Southern Provinces or more, she gave a dismissive flick of her sleeve.
"Even if I had one, you wouldn't be able to afford it."
He didn't bother responding. Just left.
The second was more promising — a cartographer's stall built into a twist of trunk-wood, with delicate charts strung like paper lanterns from the ceiling. The owner was a man with ink-stained sleeves and eyes too tired to care.
When Riven asked about regional maps, the man just grunted and gestured toward a sealed lacquer box near the corner.
Riven stepped closer and read the label:
"Southern Provinces"
His heartbeat ticked up.
He asked to see it, but just like before, the shopkeeper denied the request.
But he assured him it was legit.
Afterall if he sold fake merchandise his shop would get shut down quickly.
And Riven believed him.
"How much?"
The man held up five fingers.
Riven stared. "Five halfmoon coins?"
"Authentic map. You want junk, you can go back down a level."
Riven slowly pulled his hand back. "I'll… look around first."
The man grunted again, already putting it back.
He kept looking.
Two more shops. Three. Four.
None had a full map.
One merchant — a thin man with a long mustache and dried herb packets strung along his awning — actually laughed when Riven asked.
"Maps of other provinces? Boy, the Southern Provinces alone could take a lifetime to walk. You think you'll get past them in a season?"
Another vendor, older and more polite, just shook her head.
"Most people never leave their region. Even if they do, they go with a sect caravan or trade group. Most cartographers don't bother mapping beyond the province."
Riven's hope shrank with every conversation.
But just before he left the last stall, the older woman added something else.
"That said… there's an auction in six months. Big one. Happens every three years here in Verdance. Traders from the other provinces come through — East, West, even the Central Plains. You might get your hands on a better map then."
That got his attention. "An auction? I can join?"
She gave him a look.
"You can attend. But most of what's sold there isn't bought with greenstone."
Riven frowned. "Then with what?"
She tapped the counter softly.
"Spirit stones. That's what strong cultivators use as currency."
Spirt stones.
He knew of them.
In fact he had some on him.
They were mineral fragments infused with natural qi. It was used to power arrays, forge pills, cultivate, and—apparently—buy everything that mattered.
The sect gave each core disciple one spirit stone a month as allowance.
That added up to two total for him by now.
He reached down into the inner pouch tucked under his belt.
Felt the small pouch inside.
Two smooth stones — heavy, warm to the touch. Laced with soft energy that pulsed faintly against his palm.
He'd brought them with him.
Just in case the map was more expensive.
It looked like he was right.
Except... he was early half a year.
And he had a feeling two wouldn't be enough.
Collecting his thoughts, Riven thanked her and left.
Maybe he'd need to visit that auction in half a year.
Maybe that would be his chance.
But that was later.
For now—he turned on his heel, retracing his steps up the blooming walkways—he still had greenstone. And that one map might be the only lead he'd get for a while.
Five halfmoon coins.
He could still afford that.
>>>
The cartographer barely looked up when Riven returned.
"You decided," the man said flatly.
Riven nodded and set the coins down on the counter one by one. The greenstone clinked softly against the wood, each sound heavier than it should have been.
The man swept them away, broke the seal, and unrolled the scroll with practiced care.
"This copy's accurate," he said. "You made the right choice."
Riven barely heard him.
He leaned forward, eyes scanning eagerly—then more slowly. Lakes first. Forests. Mountain ranges. Coastlines. City clusters marked with precise calligraphy.
His heart beat faster.
Then steadied.
Then slowed.
He traced a finger across the parchment, following the sprawl of the Southern Provinces. Names he'd never heard before. Landmarks that meant nothing to him. Borders that didn't stir even a flicker of recognition.
No familiar mountain.
No river he remembered.
No city or sect name that rang true.
He ran a finger over the inked peaks. As if touching them would unlock something. But they stayed just lines. Empty, unmoved.
He searched again. More carefully this time. Slower. Desperate.
Still nothing.
The hope that had buoyed him only moments ago thinned, stretched taut—then began to fray.
"…Nothing," he murmured.
The cartographer glanced at him. "You're looking for a place?"
Riven hesitated, then nodded.
"Zephyr Peak. Have you heard of it before?"
He watched the man's face carefully, searching for anything — the smallest flicker of recognition.
But there was nothing.
The cartographer blinked. "No. What's that?"
The answer was expected.
Still, it stung.
"…Nevermind."
Riven reached forward and began rolling the scroll back up. The paper crackled softly under his fingers. He tied the string back around it, even though it didn't need to be resealed.
He hadn't really expected to find it here.
He was sure he'd have heard of it before if it was in the Southern Provinces.
Besides.
The shopkeeper didn't even seem like he had much to do with cultivation. How much could he know?
Still… there had been hope.
Now, that hope folded away with the scroll. Quiet. Unresolved.
He gave the man a nod and turned to leave.
Outside, the walkway lights had dimmed to a gentler hue — talisman lanterns shifting to cool greens and soft blues as dusk settled through the canopy. The city hadn't quieted, not really. But it felt less busy now. Less full.
Riven walked without thinking, letting the sounds of conversation and footfalls pass by like wind.
Six months.
That was the next shot. The next hope.
The auction.
And until then?
Nothing.
The tight feeling settled behind his ribs again. The one that reminded him just how far he still was from everything that once made sense.
He didn't know where Zephyr Peak was on any map.
Didn't know how his parents were.
Didn't know if his sister had been saved.
But worst of all —
He didn't know how he'd ended up here in the first place.
How did I end up here?
He took a breath. Let it out slowly.
Then pushed the thoughts down, one by one. Pressed them flat under the quiet resolve that always lived somewhere deeper — the part of him that had survived the forest, the sect trials, and the crushing sense of being lost.
There was no more searching today.
But that didn't mean the search was over.
Six months.
He'd find a way to be ready.
No matter what it took.
The next goal would be to collect as much spirit stones as possible.
Become rich.
Rich enough to buy any map he saw.
Suddenly, he was glad he hadn't given up on his training just because he'd earned the ticket to Verdance.
His steps slowed as he passed through one of the upper walkways unknowingly — a narrow platform suspended between two massive branches, lined with low lanterns and faintly glowing moss. Voices echoed nearby.
Laughter.
He turned his head just slightly.
Across the gap, on a shallow arc of woven wood and vine — a slide, curved between the limbs of two old trees — a pair of children played. A boy, maybe seven or eight, stood behind his sister with both hands on her back. She squealed with excitement, and he gave her a push.
She slid down the curve, hair flying behind her, shrieking and laughing all the way.
Riven watched them for a moment longer than he meant to.
I miss her.
>>>
At the same time, in a quiet wooden chamber high up in Verdance, a door creaked open.
Elder Syen stepped inside, his expression unreadable.
Next to him, walked a girl in a flared skirt and pale pink fitted leggings.