The stew was hot, thick, and rich—probably goat, not lamb—but after months on dried rations and monster meat, Vaen wasn't going to complain. He wiped the edge of the chipped bowl clean with a wedge of bread and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. His clothes still carried the dust of the dunes, and the air inside the Oasis Tent smelled like oil, firewood, and sweat.
But to him, it smelled like peace.
Temporary peace.
The cloaked figure near the entrance—tall, calm, composed. Their presence didn't scream authority, but it hummed. Almost too quiet. Subtle, like a blade wrapped in silk.
Vaen squinted. Dimensional Perception flickered through his senses.
Stage 3. Golden Core. Female. Beautiful, maybe. And without a doubt disguised as a male. There is some Qi signature which tells the other party is using disguising art.
He stopped chewing.
That strength—hidden beneath a tightly sealed foundation—wasn't something a common mercenary would carry. No leaking Qi, no glowing core, just faint gravitational pressure pulling at the edges of reality.
The type of suppression only a seasoned Golden Core could maintain. Yet they looked like a Peak Foundation cultivator to anyone else.
Disguised.
Why?
Vaen took another sip of tea without moving his eyes. The figure passed a few merchants and walked toward the lodging clerk, movements deliberate, silent. Not one soul blocked her path. People moved instinctively, like prey sensing something larger in the shadows.
He watched closer.
Her clothes were desert-worn, plain brown with faded black edges, face covered in scarf and goggles, hair hidden by hood.
Everything screamed 'low-profile.' But nothing about their stance or step was common.
She handed the clerk a pouch containing origin stone.
Then the clerk handed over a token, the figure gave a small nod and walked deeper into the lodging district. No words exchanged. No energy flared. No guards. No fear.
A Golden Core roaming alone in the Chaos Region?
Suicidal—or terrifying.
Vaen leaned forward slightly, elbow on the table, fingers tapping the bowl's rim. He knew what this place was. A patch of cracked land barely stitched together by trade.
Cultivators ruled by force. Peak Foundation Establishment meant you were a gang leader. Golden Core meant you owned land—unless you were insane enough to live out here like the old Nascent Soul skeletons buried in their stone caves, long abandoned by clans or contracts.
Most people feared those old bones. Vaen didn't. He just didn't care. But someone like this… a young Golden Core, moving with complete freedom, no sign of followers or faction?
She wasn't here to negotiate.
His father's words flickered through his mind again.
"Where there is beauty, there is disaster."
He didn't know if the figure was beautiful—his inability made sure of that—but something about the way she moved made his instincts twitch. Clean posture, practiced restraint.
Deadly.
He turned off his perception with a blink. Didn't want to get caught peeking too deep. She wouldn't be a young Golden Core Realm expert for nothing.
There was no need to approach. No point. Anyone strong enough to fool the senses of this camp could bury the entire Oasis Tent if they wanted. Vaen wasn't stupid.
He tossed an origin stone on the table and stood. His joints cracked a little—too long on the road. He tightened his belt and headed toward his tent: No. 12. Quiet corner near the southern barrier wall.
As he passed by the lodging clerk, the clerk didn't even glance at him.
The stranger was already gone.
Vaen stepped into the cool silence of his tent. Rolled out his mat. Unsheathed his blade just enough to check the edges. Still clean.
He lay down with his hands behind his head.
That figure wasn't here for trade. Not for wealth.
Either hunting something… or someone.
He closed his eyes. Sleep came slow.
But in his mind, the shadow of that disguised cultivator walked between tents—silent, deliberate, dangerous.
Something was about to change. Him or the circumstances.
And Vaen didn't like not knowing what.