The Laughing Drake was the kind of inn that catered to people who had coin but didn't want attention. It was sturdy, clean-ish, and located right where the dockworkers' taverns met the merchant quarter. When Lucian pushed open the heavy oak door, the low buzz of conversation didn't stop, but it dipped.
Heads turned.
He was hard to miss. Not because he was flamboyant, but because he was a blank space. In a room full of cultivators—even low-level ones—everyone gave off some kind of energy signature. A Foundation Establishment disciple had a certain solid feel. A Core Formation expert emitted a subtle pressure. Even mortals had the buzz of life.
Lucian had none of that. He walked in, and to spiritual senses, it was like a shadow had stepped inside. He wasn't hiding his power. There was simply nothing to sense. It was deeply unnerving.
