As he watched, a subtle chill crept up his spine. The ambient pressure in the plaza wasn't just from the rowdy crowd. The air itself felt thick, vibrating with a hidden network of sensory arrays. Every time someone stepped within ten paces of the mission board, a faint, imperceptible pulse of spiritual energy would sweep over them.
"Master," Crul's voice hissed in his mind, dropping to a razor-thin frequency. "The surveillance here is shifting. Two specific auras from the rooftops to our left have just scanned your position twice. They are checking your weight, your spiritual density, and the resonance of that scrap metal on your back."
"Let them look," Ethan thought back, keeping his breathing shallow and erratic, perfectly mimicking an malnourished beggar. "My core is sealed, and my Sword Intent is buried under three layers of mortal filth. To them, I'm just a desperate kid looking for a scrap of bread."
