The air shimmered faintly.
Then—nothing.
To the world, the **Moonveil Rest Pavilion**'s front entrance opened and closed as usual. Guests came and went. Lantern light spilled onto stone. Laughter drifted into the night.
But the fox stepped through **unseen**.
Its body blurred into absence, form folded perfectly beneath layered concealment. The lizard's invisibility—refined and practiced—muted sound, thinned presence, and bent qi around it, sliding past detection rather than announcing itself.
Crouched low atop the fox's head was the lizard.
Still. Balanced. Silent.
Its claws rested lightly between the fox's ears, tail coiled for balance as the fox moved. It did not look around—it could not—but it **listened**, inhaling the world through scent, vibration, and heat.
The night market of **Rivermarch** pulsed with life.
Lanterns swayed in long chains of gold and crimson. Stalls packed the street shoulder to shoulder—spirit fruit vendors shouting prices, talisman hawkers chanting guarantees, cooks tending sizzling pans of demon-meat skewers. Cultivators brushed past demons. Ghosts brushed past danger without knowing it.
Footsteps. Voices. Qi signatures tangled like threads in a loom.
The fox walked straight through it all.
No one noticed the subtle displacement of air. No one felt the brush of tails passing inches away. No one saw the lizard riding above, head tilted faintly, **mapping the street by scent alone**—wine residue, old blood, spiritual herbs, fear-sweat, damp stone.
The fox's pace was unhurried. Predatory.
It passed a group of young cultivators laughing too loudly, drunk on weak wine and borrowed confidence. Passed a merchant arguing with a spirit beast handler. Passed a veiled woman whose aura flickered strangely—half-hidden, dangerous.
The fox did not stop.
*Not yet,* it thought.
This was not random feeding.
This was **selection**.
The lizard shifted minutely atop its head. Not impatience. Recognition. Its nose lifted slightly.
A scent threaded through the chaos—**old blood**, coppery and stale beneath layers of incense and street smoke. Beneath that… something colder.
Corpse-qi.
The fox felt it too. Its step slowed by half a beat.
"…Looks like you've sensed it," it murmured, soundless.
The fox turned down a narrower side street, lantern light thinning as noise dulled behind them. The market's warmth faded, replaced by shadows and damp stone walls streaked with moss and faint talisman marks.
They moved deeper into the city.
The air changed first. Noise softened—not quieter, but **controlled**. Fewer hawkers shouting, fewer drunken laughs. Lanterns burned steadier, etched with faint formations to prevent theft or disruption. The street stones were cleaner; the buildings taller, their facades marked with guild and sect sigils rather than tavern crests.
This was not a night market.
This was a **trade district**.
Here, cultivators did not browse for fun. They came to **exchange power**.
Spirit weapons wrapped in suppression cloth passed from hand to hand. Jade slips changed owners in quiet alcoves. Disciples followed elders carrying spatial rings heavy with wealth. Even mortals walking these streets knew better than to linger.
The fox moved through it all, invisible and unchallenged.
The lizard crouched lower, claws lightly flexing as unfamiliar scents washed over it—refined metals, sealed blood, preserved cores, high-grade spirit herbs, old resentment bound into artifacts.
The fox slowed.
Ahead, a pavilion stood slightly apart.
It was larger. Older. Composed.
Six tall stone pillars supported a sweeping roof of dark jade tiles, each engraved with a **balance sigil**—not for combat, but for appraisal and exchange. Soft golden lanterns hung beneath the eaves, their light warm but unwavering. The entrance was wide and open, yet no guards stood there.
They weren't needed.
The air itself felt… regulated.
Above the entrance, carved into a slab of pale spirit-stone, were four characters:
**Heavenweight Exchange Pavilion**
The fox stopped across the street, invisible form stilled.
"…There," it thought.
This was not just a trading house.
This was where sects settled accounts. Where rare items were appraised without question. Where buyers and sellers trusted contracts more than honor.
Inside, anything could be found—for the right price.
The fox's tails swayed once.
"Perfect," it murmured soundlessly.
On its head, the lizard remained motionless, blank-eyed, senses drinking in the place. Beneath the polished stone and controlled qi, it smelled it—stored cores, sealed Yin, faint traces of **death** locked away behind formations and contracts.
The fox stepped forward.
Its invisible form moved silently through the stone-paved street, weaving past cultivators and merchants without a trace. Its ears flicked, catching the faintest vibrations of the crowd, and its tails swayed lightly as it guided the lizard closer.
"…We're here," the fox said softly, voice a whisper only the lizard could hear, transmitted through subtle **mental resonance**. "Heavenweight Exchange. Spirit weapons, cores, materials… even rare pills, if we're careful."
The lizard's claws flexed lightly atop its head, processing the scents—the press of air, the stored qi, the faint tang of metal and Yin sealed in hidden compartments.
"…Now," the fox murmured, nearing the pavilion entrance, "remove your invisibility. Move carefully, but don't draw attention."
With a subtle shimmer, the lizard's form solidified, scales gleaming faintly under lantern light. Invisible no longer, it crouched lightly atop the fox's head, perfectly balanced.
The fox stopped just short of the threshold, weaving its next layer of concealment—a subtle **illusion**. In an instant, sharp fox features, tails, and otherworldly presence melted away. In their place, a **young man** appeared, modestly dressed, nondescript, walking confidently toward the **Heavenweight Exchange Pavilion**.
The lizard remained perched atop his head, invisible to all but the fox, sensing every scent inside—the press of air, the stored qi, the faint trace of sealed power.
"…Stay still," the fox whispered, barely more than thought. "I'll handle appearances as before."
The crowd parted imperceptibly.
Two predators moved through the city in **perfect synchrony**, unseen and unchallenged.
The **Heavenweight Exchange Pavilion** loomed ahead, lanterns glimmering, the weight of wealth and power hanging in the air like a tangible aura.
The hunt—or perhaps the **procurement**—was about to begin.