About an hour later, Riven found himself standing just down the slope from the main pavilions — a winding street carved into the side of the mountain, lined with stalls and merchant booths under fluttering paper awnings. The scent of roasted spices, herbal incense, and burning talismans filled the air in a strangely pleasant haze.
He hadn't known before, but apparently the sect had its very own marketplace.
Riven followed Lumi through the crowd, staying half a step behind as she cut confidently between groups of disciples and shouting vendors.
"You're awfully good at this," he muttered, ducking a swaying banner.
"I like shopping," Lumi replied without shame. "And I like spending other people's money."
She waved a slip of paper in her hand — a sect-issued allowance token.
"The sect gave me a budget to get you a full outfit or two. Don't worry, I'll make it count."
The stalls were a mix of practical and flashy. Robes woven with qi-resistant threads. Boots made from scaled beasthide. Cloaks that shimmered faintly in the sun. Some were manned by outer disciples trying to earn merit points, others by approved traders from nearby cities. All of them hawking their wares with the charm of slightly desperate salesmen, each claiming their item was "crafted from the pelt of a sky wolf" or "worn once by a sect elder."
"Anything you can fight in, or at least run in," Lumi muttered as they passed a rack of bright silk tunics that looked more suited to an opera stage.
She stopped at another stall, then laughed and held up a long dress with pastel floral prints trailing down. "This one looks almost exactly like one of mine. Want to match?"
Riven gave her a look. "I'll pass."
"Shame," she said, putting it back with exaggerated care. "Would've been cute."
They kept browsing.
There was a thick outer cloak that shimmered with frost qi, but it cost more than their entire budget. A pair of segmented gauntlets that looked promising — until Riven realized they made him feel like his fingers were being slow-roasted.
The market wind wound around them as the crowd shifted. Criers shouted prices. A group of junior disciples haggled over a scarf. Somewhere in the distance, someone was arguing about the authenticity of a "soul-refining teacup."
In the middle of it all, Riven found himself pausing more than once to look.
Not at anything in particular — just at the stalls, the people, the wares.
He realized, distantly, that this was the first time he was shopping for clothes.
Not just in the sect.
But in general.
Back home, he'd always had his clothes prepared for him. And after arriving here, he'd simply worn the tattered robes he'd had when arriving here, followed by the sect robes afterwards. As sect robes were inlaid with a low-tier inlaid cleaning formation that made laundry unnecessary, it meant he never had to think about what he wore.
But now... his eyes widened at the options.
For a second, he even felt a little out of place. Like someone peeking into a life that had never belonged to him.
Then Lumi nudged him in the ribs.
"Don't look so overwhelmed. You're not choosing a wife. Just pants."
Riven rolled his eyes. "Hard to tell with how much ceremony you're putting into it."
"Hey," she said, holding up a sleek midnight-blue cloak and draping it over his shoulder. "Image matters. People will judge you by how you walk, talk, breathe, and yes—dress."
She narrowed her eyes, tugging on the edge of the cloak. "Too dramatic. You'd look like you were trying to join a traveling theater troupe."
Back it went.
They kept searching — Lumi flitting from one stall to another like a bird with expensive taste and no patience, Riven following with the endurance of someone who'd seen war and knew worse things than indecisive shopping.
Eventually, they found it.
A fitted robe ensemble in layered hues of pale gray and dark indigo, cut in a high-collar style with clean angles and embroidered lining. The chest and forearms were lightly armored with scale-patterned reinforcement stitched in with shimmering threads — like frost on slate.
The shoulder and lower hem bore soft violet detailing — thorned vines curling faintly along the edge, almost like brambles. If you looked too long, it felt like they were growing.
The outfit came with fingerless gloves and a hidden sheath stitched into the inner belt lining — perfect for slender weapons, like his needles. Everything about it was sleek, efficient, and precise.
Not loud. But undeniably dangerous.
Like a prince dressed for a funeral.
Riven turned slightly, testing the fit. The fabric shifted with him — smooth, quiet, unrestrictive. Sleek enough for speed. Flexible enough to fight.
He liked that.
No weight wasted. No excess.
"Looks good," Lumi said behind him, her voice bright. "Very you."
He gave her a sidelong glance. "Because it's quiet and broody?"
She stepped closer, fingers brushing along the edge of the sleeve where the soft violet vines curled.
"No," she said, grinning. "Because it has flowers."
He stared.
She gestured vaguely toward the embroidery. "See? The vines? A little dramatic. But flowers. Kind off. Matches your overly floral residence."
He gave a long-suffering sigh.
She looked very pleased with herself.
The stallkeeper returned just in time to save him from having to respond. Lumi flashed the sect-issued allowance token with a practiced motion, and the man took it with both hands, bowing slightly before vanishing to wrap and store the robes.
Quick. Efficient.
They stepped back into the market crowd, the bag tucked under Lumi's arm.
"Hey," Riven said as they walked, glancing around at the stalls. "Any chance someone's selling beast cores out here?"
Lumi blinked, then let out a soft laugh. "Here? No way. Beast cores are like gold bricks. If any showed up in this part of the sect, the Elders would swoop down and collect them before the poor stallkeeper could even blink."
Riven frowned. "None at all?"
"None that you can afford," she said dryly.
She smirked at his look, then added, "If you want beast cores, wait for Verdance. You'll have better chances finding rare stuff there."
Riven didn't reply.
He was already thinking ahead.
"But now," Her turn turned a little more somber. "We have to do one more thing."
They left the noise of the market behind, descending along a quieter stone path that curved around the mountain's lower terraces. The stalls thinned. The air cooled. Voices faded into murmurs carried by the wind.
The Servant Selection Pavilion sat apart from the rest of the sect — a long, low structure of pale stone and lacquered wood, half-hidden beneath overhanging pines. No banners. No sales cries. Just a line of carved steps leading up to a wide open entrance.
Inside, at the far end of the hall, an elder sat behind a desk, calmly turning pages in a ledger.
"Welcome."