The so-called Nimbus Cloud was, at heart, a transport vessel, though it bore little resemblance to the carriages or beasts of burden common in Linh Khư.
It looked like a boat, yet rolled on wheels tucked beneath its belly, gliding along two iron rails embedded in the earth like a giant wooden ladder. The sight was strange, even surreal.
At least within the Dry Sea and Aparagodānī, Lạc Trần had never encountered anything like it.
The closest image came not from this world, but from hazy, dreamlike echoes of Earth: something called a train.
Thanks to Commander Phong, their accommodations aboard the Nimbus Cloud were nothing short of luxurious. The four of them shared a private cabin, attended by a soft-spoken maid who saw to their every need. It was the sort of pampering usually reserved for noble heirs on retreat.
At one point, bored and half-lounging by the window, Lạc Trần casually asked where this so-called Nimbus Cloud had come from.
The maid answered readily.
Ten years ago, she said, the crown prince of the White Elephant kingdom ventured deep into the Dry Sea, where he stumbled upon a crypt, its walls smooth like porcelain, cold as northern ice, forged of an unidentifiable substance.
Inside lay a corpse. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, skin unmarred by time, clearly no native of Jambudvīpa, Aparagodānī, or any of the Four Continents. The site was later dubbed a Tomb of the Sky People. It was from that tomb, she claimed, that the blueprint for the Nimbus Cloud was drawn.
That prince now sat the throne as the White Elephant Emperor.
And from that moment on, the White Elephant kingdom had pushed further into the Dry Sea.
Fearing the secrets buried within these tombs: ancient weapons, calamity-grade relics, the Crimson Tide sacred kingdom had grown wary. Just two weeks ago, they'd declared war on the White Elephant kingdom.
Or so the story went, from the White Elephant side, at least.
Lạc Trần nodded, filing it away.
Tô Mạc Tà gave his shin a casual nudge and murmured, "Nice tale. Wonder how much of it's real."
"It's all real! The White Elephant Emperor said so himself!"
"Sure. And my uncle's a saint. Whatever helps you sleep."
Outside, the Nimbus Cloud barreled across the horizon at a blistering pace.
It couldn't rival the cripple's step or the mad doctor's spatial compression, but it still left both Tô Mạc Tà and the little Tathāgata in the dust.
Its greatest strength? It could carry ordinary people. A whole lot of them.
They traveled for a full day.
By dusk, they reached Outpost No. 3.
According to the maid, they had covered over thirty thousand miles.
Lạc Trần peered out the window, and his breath caught.
Far ahead stretched a black mountain range, glossy as obsidian, climbing into the heavens.
That was the Walled Mountain: natural bulwark between the Four Continents and the Dry Sea. According to legend, it was this jagged spine of stone that held the Dry Sea's curse at bay. Without it, all of Linh Khư might fall, forsaken by the gods, just as the Dry Sea had been.
Compared to the windswept desolation of Outpost 712, Outpost No. 3 felt like a thriving frontier town. Market stalls spilled onto the roads. Brothels, taverns, gambling dens lined both sides of the street. Hawkers shouted over one another, dice clicked against wooden boards, and idle young heirs sauntered about with silk fans and smug grins.
All sorts of people. All sorts of stories.
The place pulsed with reckless, volatile life.
The moment they stepped off the Nimbus Cloud, a patrol of armored guards stopped them for inspection. Only after confirming Commander Phong's credentials did they wave the group through.
The deaf blacksmith stretched his limbs, then signed:
"There's an auction in town. Might be worth a look, see if we can pick up decent materials."
Lạc Trần narrowed his eyes.
"We're barely an arm's length from the Walled Mountain. Less than half an hour from the outer world. If someone had genuine loot from the Dry Sea, why sell it here? Wouldn't they wait and fetch a better price in the proper markets? Feels like begging to be scammed."
The little Tathāgata groaned.
"See? Sometimes I really want to punch this guy."
He rubbed his palms together, grinding his teeth in exaggerated frustration.
Tô Mạc Tà laughed.
"Brother Lạc breezes through Cloudspike Sect's Entrance Ceremony, becomes a prodigy in three days, no rivals, no struggle. Of course he doesn't get it. Calm down, monk. Don't let rage mess with your heart."
She turned toward Lạc Trần, her expression softening.
"In big sects or ancient clans, heirship isn't handed out freely. There are always multiple candidates vying for a single seat. Sometimes one stands out. But when they're all dragons and phoenixes, or just big fish from the same little pond, how do you choose?"
She gestured toward the street.
"That's why some heirs head into the Dry Sea. To prove they've got real grit."
Lạc Trần gave a thoughtful nod.
"So... like when young cultivators enter hidden realms to earn glory? Like at Godfell Ridge?"
"Not quite," she replied. "We actually risked our lives. These heirs? Maybe once, long ago. But now? They just buy prestige. What started noble became theater. The Dry Sea's dangerous, no elder wants their heir gambling with death. So the heirs get stationed at edge villages near the Walled Mountain. Just long enough to convince the masses they braved the Dry Sea."
She smirked.
"That's gold-brushing. Dip your toe in, then run home shining."
Tô Mạc Tà shrugged. The little Tathāgata chimed in:
"Big outposts like this - close, safe, comfortable - make perfect gold-brushing hubs. Where noble heirs gather, coin follows. They host auctions, buying relics off rogue cultivators to boost their clout. One side risks their necks. The other buys scraps and plays hero. Everyone wins."
Lạc Trần nodded slowly, the gears turning.
"So... did you two ever gold-brush?"
"Of course," Tô Mạc Tà said, casually lacing her fingers behind her back. "Honestly? At least thirty percent of my accolades were pure fluff. Especially when I first stepped into cultivation. It was all elders propping me up."
The little Tathāgata gave a small nod.
"Not as bad as thirty, but yeah. I used a few tricks. You have to, if you want to stand out."
Just the day before, Lạc Trần had overheard the little Tathāgata bargaining with Lam Vân Hoa. The previous successor had been killed. Now, knowing that, he could better grasp how cutthroat the competition must be within the Pagoda of Inner Peace.
"Alright. Let's see what this auction's about."
Outpost No. 3 hosted daily auctions.
No entry fees. No identity checks. No deposits. After all, this was the Dry Sea. If rogue cultivators weren't welcomed with open arms, who would risk their necks for relics? Who would sell them to pampered heirs playing adventurer?
Of course, if you wanted perks: private booths, personal attendants, the illusion of status, you had to pay. It catered perfectly to the noble-born, who loved nothing more than looking down on the crowd.
The four didn't bother.
They accepted basic auction masks and slipped into the open plaza reserved for rogue cultivators.
It was massive, spanning nearly five hundred meters, and utterly packed. Over fifteen hundred people shoulder to shoulder, breathing each other's dust. A churning sea of wanderers. No affiliations. No uniforms. A mess of accents and a dozen different scents of cheap cultivation oils.
Security? Practically nonexistent.
At the center stood the auctioneer: a balding elder with a beard that reached his chest. He banged a gavel rhythmically, his voice hoarse from shouting.
Strange lumps of ore. Fossilized seeds. Half-crystallized skeletons. Relics of uncertain origin. Item after item passed through his hands, most utterly useless, yet they fetched ridiculous prices.
This wasn't the barter bazaar held monthly deeper in the Dry Sea, where trades were harsh and direct. Here, the bidding ran on Evercoins - currency minted by the Everwatchers, accepted by all sects, sacred kingdoms, and roaming tribes across all four continents. A universal coin, impossible to fake. Impossible to refuse.
Everywhere, except the Dry Sea.
They watched for a time. Boredom crept in.
The auction was clearly tailored for the rich: gaudy trinkets with little true merit. Rare materials? Nothing the deaf blacksmith was hoping for. Even he clicked his tongue, hands signing complaints about overblown rumors and polished trash.
Two hours passed. Nothing caught their interest.
They left.
They hadn't gone far.
As they turned into a quiet alley between stacked clay buildings, shadows shifted. A group of men stepped into view, crooked eyes, hungry smiles. Lạc Trần glanced back. More shadows emerged. Others slid in from the flanks.
Three here. Six there. Another four behind. Seventeen in total.
Faces weathered, clothes mismatched, weapons barely cleaned. Rogue cultivators. No sect markings. Loose dogs traveling in a pack.
Their leader stepped forward: wiry build, a jagged scar slashing across his lips. His hair stuck out in greasy ridges, like the rind of a spoiled melon.
"Hand over your Dry Sea haul," he growled. "Maybe we let you crawl out."
He jerked his chin.
The circle closed.