The fox's steps slowed as they moved down the quiet corridor. Its tails swayed, but the rhythm was jagged, uneven—far from the controlled grace it had shown in the pavilion. Beneath the illusion of the young man, the fox's ears twitched sharply.
"…Fools," it muttered, barely a whisper at first, its voice tight with restrained fury. "…They think I'm a fool. That I'd sell three Earth-grade spirit tools for just forty-eight hundred low-grade spirit stones… and then hand me **seven hundred**. Seven hundred!"
The illusion's smile faltered, twisting into something harsh and ugly, jagged like broken glass. Its eyes—still human in appearance—glinted with sharp, predatory light.
The fox snapped its fingers. The illusion wavered for a heartbeat before solidifying again, but the tension did not fade. Its claws flexed slightly beneath its sleeves, tail twitching with pent-up force.
"…Greedy," it hissed, low and deadly. "The price was fair… **too fair**. But their greed… their arrogance…"
It stopped, scanning the empty corridor. The lizard, perched invisibly on its head, remained still, blank-eyed, claws flexing faintly as it absorbed the change in the fox's aura.
"…They should have just waited," the fox continued, teeth clenched behind the illusion. "They'll regret this. Every last one of those spirit stones… I'll take them back. Every **single one**."
The illusion shifted as the fox's tails lashed sharply.
"…And not just their stones," it went on. "Their arrogance. Their complacency. Their sense of security. They will pay for that too."
The lizard's head tilted slightly, sensing the intensity radiating from the fox. Hunger and calculation mingled in the air, a coiled storm ready to strike.
"…Good," the fox whispered, voice low and venomous. "…Let's go. Rivermarch isn't going to wait forever—and neither will I."
The alleyway ahead seemed to darken, shadows stretching longer as the fox moved with purpose, carrying not only the items they had purchased, but **a promise of retribution** that was only beginning to take shape.
The lizard's claws flexed once more, sensing the weight of the plan forming in the fox's mind.
**This was no longer just acquisition. This was payback.**
---
Back inside the appraisal chamber, the door slid shut with a muted *thud*.
The room sealed itself—wards humming faintly along the walls, isolating sound and qi. A single lantern burned with cold blue flame, casting long shadows across the appraisal table.
The **appraiser** stood hunched over the remaining spirit tools, fingers hovering just above their surfaces. His brows were tightly knit, eyes sharp with professional caution.
The **ghost-faced woman** stood to the side, hands folded within her sleeves, her pale, mask-like face unreadable.
The appraiser broke the silence.
"…The soul imprints are still present," he said slowly. "Not faint. Not eroded. **Fresh**."
He straightened, turning slightly toward the woman.
"That means one of two things," he continued. "They were stolen… or the owners were killed."
A pause.
"…And judging by the imprint density, it was recent."
The woman's head tilted a fraction.
"He didn't even attempt to erase them?" she asked softly.
The appraiser let out a quiet scoff.
"No. Nor did he wait for them to fade naturally." He tapped the table lightly. "Which means only one thing."
His eyes narrowed.
"He didn't care."
The room grew colder.
The woman's voice remained calm. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," the appraiser said, choosing his words carefully, "that the seller is either ignorant of the risk… or confident enough that being traced doesn't matter."
He glanced toward the door.
"…Or believes no one will dare."
Silence stretched.
The ghost-faced woman considered this.
"…Should we investigate?" she asked. "If the tools are tied to active deaths, the Pavilion—"
The appraiser raised a hand, stopping her.
"No," he said flatly. "Not yet."
He turned back to the spirit tools, eyes gleaming with something between caution and intrigue.
"If he wanted to hide it, he could have. Easily. The fact that he didn't…"
He chuckled under his breath.
"…Means this was deliberate. Either arrogance… or a warning."
The woman's pale lips curved into the faintest smile.
"…And if it's the latter?"
The appraiser exhaled slowly.
"Then we pretend we saw nothing," he said. "Because people who sell Earth-grade tools with fresh soul imprints and walk away calmly…"
His gaze hardened.
"…Are not the kind you provoke over margins."
The woman inclined her head slightly.
"…Understood."
The lantern flame flickered.
And somewhere outside the Pavilion—unseen and already moving—the fox walked with an ugly smile, while the debt between it and the Heavenweight Exchange quietly **deepened**.
---
The night swallowed them as they left the Pavilion.
Lantern light faded behind layered roofs, replaced by the low murmur of the district—quiet now, deliberate, the kind of place where deals were remembered long after faces were forgotten.
The fox walked at an even pace, illusion intact, voice flowing casually through the link to the lizard.
"…I'm not saying this to mock you," the fox said. "I'm teaching you. What just happened? That was a lesson. Pricing. Leverage. Who holds power in a room—and who only *thinks* they do."
It glanced sideways, tone turning more serious.
"You didn't get squeezed today because you're weak. You got squeezed because you didn't know the rules yet. One day, you will. And when that day comes, no one will dare try that again."
A pause.
"So pay attention," it continued. "Everything. Faces. Pauses. Who smiles too fast. Who doesn't smile at all. You're smart—smarter than you realize—but experience is different."
The fox's tails swayed faintly.
"…Learning from me will save you a lot of pain."
Then, lighter—too light.
"For now," it added, half-joking, "maybe you should start calling me *Master Foxy*."
The response was instant.
The lizard's claws **dug sharply** into the fox's fur.
Not playful.
Not accidental.
A low, guttural **growl** vibrated against the fox's skull—deep, warning, primal.
The fox stiffened.
Every hair along its back stood on end.
Its steps faltered for half a heartbeat.
"…Ah—"
It stopped immediately.
"Sorry," the fox said quickly, voice dropping, the illusion faltering just a fraction. "That was too much. I spoke out of place."
It swallowed, ears flattening.
"I won't push," it added more quietly. "Forget I said that."
The lizard didn't release its grip right away.
Its claws remained buried in the fox's fur for a long moment—silent, dominant, wordless.
Then… slowly… they loosened.
The growl faded.
The fox exhaled, careful not to move too suddenly, and resumed walking—this time without jokes, without titles, without assumptions.
The night closed around them again.
And both understood something clearly now:
This was not a master and a disciple.
This was a partnership walking a very thin line.