The golden light of dawn spread across the city, turning the distant spires of the Solaris palace into sharp, glittering shards against the pale sky.

Damon watched it from the window, his hands resting on the cool sill.

Behind him, the soft, even breaths of Ariel, Mio, and Mia filled the room, a warm contrast to the cold calculation in his head.

He could spend it lounging in the suite, cultivating, or enjoying his women. That’s what a normal person might do.

But normal people didn’t have enemies like Alistair Reventon, and they didn’t own swords that could cut space.

He turned from the window, his movements silent on the plush carpet.

He dressed in simple black robes, the fabric high-quality but unadorned, something that wouldn’t draw the eye in a wealthy district.

He tucked the communication storage ring onto his finger, checked that the Chaos Devourer Sword was secure in his storage ring, and wrote a quick note on a piece of parchment he found on the writing desk.

’I’m going to gather information. Will be back by afternoon.’

He left it on the bedside table where Ariel would see it.

Neko, curled at the foot of the bed in her tiger cub form, opened one golden eye as he passed. She gave a soft, questioning chirp.

"Neko, Guard them," Damon whispered, scratching behind her ear.

"I’m just going for a walk."

Neko nudged his hand with her head, then settled back into the blankets, her tail twitching once.

Damon slipped out of the suite, closing the heavy door without a sound.

The hallway of the Golden Sun Pavilion was empty, lit by early morning sun filtering through crystalline windows.

His footsteps were the only sound as he made his way down the grand staircase to the main lobby.

The manager, an elderly man with meticulous silver hair, was already at his podium.

He looked up, his professional smile not quite reaching his eyes.

"Young master, departing so early? Can I arrange a carriage?"

"No, I need directions. Where do cultivators in this city go to talk? To exchange news." "Damon said.

The manager’s smile tightened slightly.

"For reputable news, the Solaris Gazette Hall near the palace archives is open to all. For... less reputable news, the taverns in the lower merchant district are always buzzing. The Silken Serpent is particularly popular with those who have coin to spend and loose tongues."

"Directions to the lower merchant district." Damon said.

The manager gave them, his voice carefully neutral, and Damon left the pavilion without another word.

The streets of Solaris City were coming alive. Vendors rolled out carts laden with glowing fruits and steaming buns infused with spiritual herbs.

The air smelled of incense, baking bread, and the faint, clean ozone of active formation arrays woven into the very cobblestones.

Damon moved through the crowds with an easy, fluid grace, his Polymorph ability firmly locking his displayed cultivation at the third level of the True Spirit Realm.

He looked like just another young disciple from a minor sect, nothing worth a second glance.

It took him an hour of walking to reach the lower merchant district.

The architecture changed from gleaming white stone and gold trim to sturdy, dark timber and slate roofs.

The crowds were denser, louder, the conversations a blunt cacophony of haggling and gossip.

He found the Silken Serpent tucked between a weapon smithy and a shop selling beast cores.

It was a two-story building with a sign depicting a coiling serpent made of shimmering silk.

Even at this hour, the door was open, and the low rumble of voices spilled out into the street.

Damon stepped inside.

The interior was dim, lit by glowing moss trapped in glass orbs hanging from the beams. The air was thick with the smell of ale, roasted meat, and the sweat of too many bodies.

Round wooden tables were packed with cultivators in rough travel robes, merchants in fine silks, and a few individuals in the distinct uniforms of lesser sects.

A bard in the corner plucked at a zither, but no one was listening.

Damon found an empty stool at the end of the long, polished bar.

The bartender, a burly man with a scar across his forehead, wiped a tankard with a cloth and gave him a nod.

"What’ll it be?"

"Whatever’s strongest," Damon said, placing a low-grade spirit stone on the bar.

It was more than enough for a drink, and the extra was for information.

The bartender’s eyes flicked to the stone, and he grunted.

He pulled a dark bottle from under the counter, poured a measure of amber liquid into a clay cup, and slid it over.

"Fire-ape whiskey. Burns going down, warms the core."

Damon took a sip. It did burn, a pleasant heat that spread through his chest. He kept his expression neutral.

"Busy place."

"Always is," the bartender said, not moving away. "Especially with the tournament coming up. Lots of folks coming into the city, lots of folks looking for an edge, or looking to sell one."

"I heard a rumor," Damon said, keeping his voice casual. He rotated the cup between his fingers. "About someone hiring muscle here recently. For a job in the sky."

The bartender’s wiping slowed. His gaze turned assessing, moving over Damon’s robes, his face, lingering on his golden eyes.

"Rumors are like farts in here, kid. Everyone makes ’em, and they all stink. You looking to hire, or you looking for trouble?"

"Just curious..." Damon said. He took another sip.

"I’m new to the city. I heard the Reventon name carries weight. Wondering if they’re the kind to hold a grudge after a... public disagreement."

A knowing look flashed in the bartender’s eyes.

’So the news from the auction had already spread here.’

"The Reventons hold grudges like dragons hold treasure. They bury ’em deep and guard ’em forever."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping.

"But that old man Alistair, he’s smart. He doesn’t make moves in the light. If you crossed him, watch your shadow, not your front."

Damon nodded as if given simple advice about the weather.

He finished the whiskey, the heat settling in his gut.

"What about the eastern continent tournament? Any famous name? Besides the obvious Solaris entrants."