Stepping inside the inn, Kai was immediately enveloped by the warm, bustling atmosphere. The air was thick with the mingling scents of steamed rice, grilled fish, and the faint bitterness of freshly brewed tea. Groups of people were scattered around the room, seated at wooden tables worn smooth by years of use. Some were eating hearty meals, their chopsticks clinking against bowls, while others sipped tea and engaged in idle conversation, their voices a low hum that filled the space.

  The largest group, by far, appeared to be fishermen. Their sun-weathered faces and calloused hands spoke of long hours spent on the water, and their clothing—simple, practical, and often patched—hinted at a life of labor. Kai quickly surmised that these were river folk, people who traveled up and down the waterway, stopping at villages like river nomads to rest, trade, or resupply. The sheer number of them in the inn wouldn’t have made sense for such a small village otherwise. This place, he realized, must be a waypoint for those navigating the river, whether they were transporting goods, ferrying passengers, or simply seeking the best fishing spots.

  In one corner of the inn, a particularly boisterous cluster of boatmen had gathered, their voices rising and falling in animated bursts. They were hunched over a small table, their attention fixed on a game of chance. Dice clattered across the wood, followed by cheers and groans as fortunes shifted with each roll. Coins and small trinkets exchanged hands, their metallic glint catching the light from the flickering lanterns overhead. The gamblers’ laughter was loud and unrestrained, a stark contrast to the quieter conversations happening elsewhere in the room.

  Kai’s eyes swept over the scene, taking in the details. The innkeeper, a stout man with a bushy beard, moved between the tables with practiced ease, balancing trays of food and drink. A few villagers sat among the travelers, their presence a reminder that this inn was as much a part of Kumitari as the fields and homes outside.

  Quietly, Kai made his way to an empty table near the edge of the room, careful not to draw attention. The weight of Yinying on his shoulder was a constant reminder to stay alert, even in this seemingly ordinary setting. As he settled into his seat, he listened intently to the snippets of conversation around him, hoping to catch any useful information.

  Before Kai could settle into his seat and take in more of the inn’s lively atmosphere, the innkeeper approached him with a broad smile and an air of cheerful hospitality. The man was stout and robust, his bushy beard framing a face that seemed accustomed to laughter. His eyes, though kind, carried a sharpness that suggested he was no stranger to reading people.

  “Hello, good sir!” the innkeeper greeted, his voice warm and booming. “Is there anything I can get for you? A meal, perhaps? Or maybe a drink to wash away the dust of the road?”

  Kai hesitated, caught off guard by the man’s directness. He quickly realized that his simple Hanfu and unassuming appearance had led the innkeeper to assume he was just another mortal traveler. “Oh, yes, um, maybe,” Kai began, his tone polite but slightly awkward. “Good sir, I won’t sugarcoat it—I don’t have any money with me. Would you perhaps be willing to barter for something to eat?”

  The innkeeper’s cheerful expression faltered, his smile fading into a look of disappointment, then sympathy. He studied Kai for a moment, his gaze lingering on the weariness in the young man’s eyes and the faint traces of dust on his robes. “Sir,” the innkeeper said, his voice softer now, “are you perhaps a refugee?”

  Kai paused, then nodded slowly. It wasn’t a lie—not entirely. In a way, he was a refugee, though not in the sense the innkeeper likely imagined. He had fled from a life that was no longer his, from a past that threatened to consume him. The term fit, even if the details were far more complicated than he could ever explain.

  The innkeeper’s face softened further, and he let out a sigh that carried the weight of someone who had seen too many weary souls pass through his doors. “Times are hard for many these days,” he said, more to himself than to Kai. Then, with a resolute nod, he added, “Wait here. I’ll bring you something to eat. No one should go hungry in my inn, not if I can help it.”

  Before Kai could protest, the innkeeper turned and hurried toward the kitchen, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd with ease. Kai watched him go, with a mix of guilt settling in his chest.

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  Kai hadn’t come to the inn to eat. His true intention was to blend in and eavesdrop on conversations, hoping to gather information about the state of the world and perhaps catch wind of any news that might help him on his journey. When the innkeeper approached him so quickly, Kai was caught off guard. He hadn’t planned on drawing attention to himself, and now he found himself in an awkward position. Refusing to order anything would seem suspicious, so he felt compelled to ask for at least a drink. But there was a problem: he didn’t have any local currency to trade with.

  The only forms of “wealth” Kai carried were a few spirit stones—precious gems imbued with spiritual energy, used as currency among cultivators and sects. However, using them here would be risky. Spirit stones were unmistakably tied to the cultivation world, and flashing them in a small, mortal village like Kumitari would immediately raise questions about his identity. It could draw unwanted attention, something Kai couldn’t afford. The other form of currency he had was Ember Sword merit, a token of his former sect. But with the Ember Sword Sect now gone, those tokens were little more than worthless trinkets, relics of a life that no longer existed.

  That only left bartering.

  He had initially planned to barter for food or drink using pelts from animals Kai’s spirit beast companions had hunted during their travels. The pelts were valuable enough to mortals, and trading them would have been a discreet way to pay for what he needed without revealing his connection to the cultivation world. But before he could even mention the pelts, the innkeeper’s unexpected kindness had thrown him off balance.

  The man hadn’t asked for payment. He hadn’t even hesitated before offering to feed Kai, a stranger, out of sheer goodwill. It was a level of generosity Kai hadn’t anticipated, and it left him feeling a pang of guilt. The truth was, he didn’t need the food. His spirit beast companions—Snow, Yinying, and the others—had ensured that no one in his group went hungry during their time in the wilds. Whether it was through hunting game, foraging for edible plants, or some beast being able to even purify water, they had always managed to provide. Kai hadn’t known hunger during his time in the wilds.

  Yet here was this innkeeper, a man who likely worked tirelessly to keep his business afloat, offering a meal without expecting anything in return. It was a kindness that touched Kai deeply, even as it weighed on his conscience. He wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of such selflessness, especially not from someone who had no reason to trust him.

  Living as a cultivator has made me jaded toward other people, Kai silently thought to himself.

  The realization struck him with a quiet clarity. Years of navigating the cutthroat world of sects, alliances, and rivalries had conditioned him to view every interaction through a lens of suspicion and calculation. Trust and kindness was a luxury one could rarely afford in the cultivator world. But here, in this humble village inn, he was being reminded that not every act of goodwill had an ulterior motive.

  As he sat there, lost in thought, another man approached his table, carrying a teapot and a couple of cups. The man was older, his face weathered by years of sun and wind, and his hands calloused from a life of labor. He had the look of one of the river folk—a boatman who spent his days navigating the currents and trading goods along the waterways.

  “Heard you say you were a refugee,” the man said, his voice rough but not unkind. He set the teapot and cups down on the table with a practiced ease. “Mind joining me for some tea?”

  Kai looked up, momentarily caught off guard by the offer. His first instinct was to decline, to retreat into the cautious mindset. “That’s very kind of you, sir,” he began, his tone polite but guarded, “but I have no money to pay for my share of tea.”

  The older man chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to carry the weight of countless stories. “I’m not asking for your money,” he said, taking a seat and pouring tea into one of the cups and sliding it toward Kai. “But if you don’t want to feel indebted, how about you tell me a story? I’m sure someone like you has quite the tale.”

  Kai hesitated, his fingers brushing against the warm cup. The man’s words struck a chord, stirring something within him. That stupid cultivator mindset, he chided himself silently. Always assuming every human interaction is purely transactional. I need to stop doing that. These people aren’t like the schemers and opportunists I’ve known. They’re just… people. Mortals, living their lives, sharing what little they have without expecting anything in return. I need to start seeing them that way.

  The realization was both humbling and liberating. For so long, Kai had viewed the world as a place where every kindness came with a price, where trust was a weakness to be exploited. But here, in this simple inn, he was being shown a different way—a way of connection, of shared humanity. It was a lesson he hadn’t known he needed.

  With a small, grateful smile, Kai picked up the cup of tea and took a sip. The warmth spread through him, not just from the tea but from the unexpected kindness of the gesture. “Thank you,” he said, his voice softer now, less guarded. “I’m not sure I have much to tell.”

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