~ The Streets of Purple Astral
The sects were empty.
Every cultivator of note, every disciple of standing, every elder with ambition had left the capital. The inheritance mountain, the Reincarnation Pool, the Jade Sect's legacy — all of it had drawn them north like moths to a flame. The streets, usually bustling with robed figures arguing about dao and debating formation theory, were now populated only by the common folk. The merchants. The artisans. The servants. The people who could not fly, who could not fight beasts, who could not chase legends.
The carriage moved through the cobblestone streets at a leisurely pace. It was a merchant's carriage — the Han family crest, a golden crane clutching a spirit-stone, was emblazoned on the lacquered black doors. The driver, an old man with a grey beard and steady hands, sat upright and kept his eyes forward. He had been told not to look inside. Not to listen. Not to acknowledge any sound that came from the cabin.
