"Fifteen thousand low-grade spirit stones!"
The declaration reverberated through the grand hall of the Vermillion City Auction Pavilion like a thunderclap wrapped in silk. For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then came the soft murmur of disbelief—gasps, whispers, and the faint rustle of silk sleeves brushing against armrests.
At the center of the commotion stood three monks, their heads shaved clean, their white robes unblemished even under the flickering glow of lanterns. They seemed untouched by the world's dust, serene as snow upon a silent mountain.
The eldest among them pressed his palms together. "Amitābha. The relic now returns to the path of righteousness."
The auctioneer exhaled in visible relief, his hand trembling as he struck the hammer.
"Sold—to the venerable monks of the White Crane Monastery!"
The crisp sound of the gavel cut through the hall like the final note of a ritual chant. Applause rippled—soft, measured, and tinged with envy. The relic they had purchased—the Purity Bone Bead, said to contain the crystallized essence of an Arhat who once transcended the mortal coil—had drawn bids from nearly every major sect in attendance.
Yet, despite the competition, the monks had remained tranquil. No pride, no haste—just three silent figures bound by calm conviction, as if the flow of destiny itself yielded before their serenity.
From a shadowed corner, Li Shen watched the entire exchange. His expression betrayed no greed nor envy; his gaze was as tranquil as still water. To him, the auction was not about possession—but understanding. Each item sold, each bid placed, revealed the heart of a cultivator.
When the event concluded and the crowd began to thin, he turned to the man beside him—Captain Xu Wen, the stalwart commander of the Vermillion Guard.
"Captain Xu," Li Shen said, inclining his head slightly. "I am grateful for the chance to witness such grandeur."
Xu Wen smiled faintly, the corner of his scarred lips curving upward. "Brother Li, it was I who should thank you. You've earned my men's respect—and that is not easily won. Should fate allow, I hope our paths cross again."
Li Shen bowed with calm respect. "Then may fate be kind."
Outside, the Vermillion dusk bled into gold, the city pulsing with life. The fragrance of lantern oils and roasted chestnuts mingled with the hum of spiritual energy. Mortals haggled in the markets, unaware that beyond their laughter and trade, hidden powers moved unseen.
He wandered through the lantern-lit streets until the aroma of steamed buns drifted toward him. A modest food stall stood at the corner, its cauldron steaming with gentle hiss.
The vendor, an old man with calloused hands and kindly eyes, smiled as he lifted the lid. "Young master, care for a Spirit Pao? Filled with moon-boar meat and soaked in qi broth—fresh out of the steamer!"
Li Shen nodded, handing over a spirit coin. The bun was soft, warm, and fragrant. As he bit into it, a pulse of gentle qi spread through his meridians—mild, nourishing, unrefined but pure.
"Even the simplest food," Li Shen thought, "bears the mark of cultivation. The world itself cultivates, in its own rhythm."
He ate quietly, watching the ebb and flow of people under the lanterns. In this city of cultivators and mortals, every life pulsed with a spark of purpose. Strength was not the only path—sometimes, survival itself was a form of cultivation.
He finished his meal, about to return to the courtyard, when the crowd before him parted. Three familiar figures emerged from the throng—the monks of the White Crane Monastery. Their robes remained immaculate despite the dust of the street, and the faint scent of sandalwood lingered around them.
The eldest stepped forward, pressing his palms together.
"Amitābha, benefactor. Might we trouble you for a few moments of your time?"
Li Shen blinked in surprise. "The venerable monks seek me?"
The youngest of the three, whose voice carried the clarity of a morning bell, replied, "We do not seek lightly. If the benefactor permits, we wish to speak privately."
The monks introduced themselves with calm grace:
Elder Yanshi, the eldest, his gaze deep and unwavering.
Master Huiyin, composed and soft-spoken, a scholar among monks.
Brother Zefan, the youngest, his aura gentle but unshakably pure.
Li Shen studied their expressions—no deceit, no coercion, only solemn intent.
"Very well," he said finally. "Lead the way."
They guided him to the Vermillion Pavilion, a distinguished establishment famed for its spirit-infused teas and absolute discretion. As they entered, a formation shimmered faintly, isolating their presence from prying eyes.
Inside, a private room awaited them, draped in gauzy silks and perfumed with incense that curled like drifting clouds. The gentle hum of spiritual arrays muffled the outside world.
Elder Yanshi poured a cup of spirit tea before Li Shen, the liquid faintly luminescent. "Amitābha. Benefactor, forgive our abruptness. We hail from the White Crane Monastery, far in the northern peaks of the Azure Feather Range."
He spoke slowly, each word measured like the toll of a temple bell.
"Our abbot, before entering his final meditation, foresaw a calamity—a shadow that would one day engulf our order. To prepare, he poured his remaining life essence into a single object, a guide forged from his own karma."
From within his sleeve, Yanshi withdrew a small relic shaped like a half-open lotus bud. Its golden glow flickered weakly, the surface marred by hairline cracks. Yet even in its fading light, it radiated an inexplicable warmth—a sacred rhythm that brushed against Li Shen's spiritual sense.
"This is the Karmic Echo," Yanshi continued reverently. "It was not meant for battle or cultivation, but to lead us to the one intertwined with our destiny. The abbot's final words were: 'When calamity comes, the lotus shall bloom near the fated one.'"
Brother Zefan spoke next, his tone sincere. "When we arrived in Vermillion City, this relic began to shine near your presence, benefactor. Its glow has not faded since."
Master Huiyin added, "As proof of our sincerity, we offer you this." He produced the Purity Bone Bead—the very relic they had purchased for fifteen thousand spirit stones.
The monks placed both relics before him, side by side—the cracked lotus and the radiant bead.
"If you accept," Yanshi said, "our karma shall intertwine. You will not be bound, nor will we demand aid. Yet when our monastery faces destruction, you will sense our plight. You may choose to act—or not. The seed of fate will have been sown, nothing more."
Li Shen stared at the relics. The golden light reflected in his eyes like twin flames. "Fate, karma, destiny…" he murmured softly. "Such grand words, yet I am but a disciple of modest cultivation. What meaning would I hold to a monastery's fate?"
Yanshi smiled faintly. "Amitābha. Karma flows not toward strength or weakness—it flows where it must."
Huiyin leaned forward slightly. "Even the smallest stream can guide a river's bend. We merely ask that you hold the relic, and let destiny unfold."
Before Li Shen could refuse, Zefan gently pushed the Karmic Echo toward him. "Please, benefactor. The bloom has chosen."
The moment his fingertips brushed the lotus, a wave of warmth spread through him. It wasn't violent—it was like the touch of sunlight after winter, gentle yet profound. Threads of energy seeped into his meridians, intertwining with his qi sea.
Then—
Ding!
A crystalline tone resonated within his mind, clear and bright as a silver bell.
System Notification:Detected foreign object with restorative properties. Partial synchronization possible.
Li Shen's breath caught. For the first time in many months, the System had spoken again. Its presence, dormant and silent since his awakening, now stirred faintly like an ancient beast opening one eye.
He calmed his breathing, hiding his reaction behind a sip of tea. "So," he thought quietly, "this relic may be linked to the System's origin… or to what it seeks."
When he looked up, the monks were watching him expectantly.
"I accept your karma," he said at last, his voice calm but resolute.
The monks bowed deeply, relief flickering in their eyes.
"Amitābha," Yanshi murmured. "Then it is done. The karmic thread has been tied."
When Li Shen stepped out of the pavilion, the night had deepened. The city glowed beneath a canopy of lanterns, each flame swaying like a spirit dancing on the breeze.
Behind him, the monks lingered in silence.
"Do you think it truly is him?" Zefan asked softly.
"The Karmic Bloom does not err," Yanshi replied. "The abbot's final wish was never mistaken."
Li Shen did not look back. His mind was a sea of quiet thought—reflections layered upon reflections.
The monks claim destiny, he mused, yet destiny favors no one. Still… the System reacted. That cannot be mere coincidence.
He slipped the relic into his spatial pouch, feeling the faint pulse of warmth through the fabric.
Fate, karma, system—three threads intertwining. But who is the weaver?
The street led him back toward the courtyard where his companions waited, their voices faintly audible through the night air.
Li Shen exhaled softly. "Perhaps," he murmured, "some roads choose their traveler long before the first step is taken."
And with that quiet thought, he walked onward—