Radeon had already tasked the bison to collect grain and fodder from the stores.

When he whistled, it lumbered closer, wings folded, breath steaming faint in the night.

The people parted for it without thinking, part fear and part instinct.

No one stood in the path of something that could fly.

Radeon watched the bandits as they watched him.

Their blades were up, but the angles were wrong. Not aimed to kill. Held like men waiting for someone else.

They were pondering what to do next, and he could see the thought creeping through the crowd like smoke.

If coming with him were an option, any of these men would jump at the first opportunity.

What's more, they did not even know each leader kept a private stash.

That ignorance gnawed at them now, breaking what little morale remained.

A bandit's loyalty did not survive the discovery that the boss had been stealing from his own thieves.

Radeon took advantage of the crack.

He tossed notices into the crowd, the papers fluttering like pale birds before hands snatched them from the air.

Learn real cultivation. Find real work. Come to Goldkeep Crownmarket within two months.

By then, Radeon knew, he would have found the chosen child of heaven.

He had treasure now, yes, but treasure only lasted so long.

Cultivation resources did not fall from trees, and men were a resource too, if you knew how to use them.

He opened two chests of gold and let them spill out enough to be seen. Not as a gift. As a hook.

Cultivators still ate. Hungry men turned violent faster than loyal ones.

Then he gave them the truth they had been waiting for.

"Sangno, Jorge, and Liam fell in battle," Radeon said. His voice carried without strain, rolling over the settlement.

"They crossed a senior of the Hemal Tithe Cult. I'm not here to argue. I'm here to collect what's owed."

He paused, letting the name settle and rot in their mouths.

"For those who were offended."

He looked over the gathering crowd of warriors. Thirty. Fifty. More in the shadows.

Faces trying to decide whether to hate him or worship him.

"Best you come work for me at Goldkeep Crownmarket," Radeon continued, his voice booming now, no room to haggle. "Two months. Be there."

Then he rose, bull and wings lifting him into the dark. From above, he watched the bandits divide the gold.

They did it evenly, quick and careful, as if fairness might save them. He could see the shift already.

Men packing. Men leaving the settlement behind, tempted by the idea of working in the light instead of skulking in the dirt.

They did not dare shout. They did not dare boast. In their eyes Radeon was a high elder, because who else rode a flying bull.

Nobility or a mighty cultivator. Their minds leaned toward the latter.

Radeon knew words alone would not convince them. Not fully. Men like this needed proof, even if the proof was a lie dressed as craft.

He flicked a scroll down to the man who had been organizing the line, the one with the loudest voice and the steadiest hands.

"This is the story of how they fought," Radeon said.

A scroll depicting a last battle. In this age, only mighty sects could afford such things.

The lie was clean. It gave them something to hold, something to talk about on the road.

When they reached Goldkeep, Radeon would need loyal men, not thieves hungry for small gains.

So he fed them a story that would teach them which side to stand on.

But Radeon knew something people of this era did not. Censorship.

He wrote nothing that resembled the true battle.

No Hemal Tithe insignia. No sword lights that could be traced back to the Skyflight Sword Court.

No names beyond what was already dead and rumor ready.

The scroll held only the three bandit leaders wounded and staggering through their last moments.

Bleeding out in the dirt like men who had finally met a larger hunger than their own.

What Radeon relied on was their imagination. Let their mind fill in the gaps and it would do the work for you.

News would spread in a hundred different shapes, each teller adding a new color, each listener turning it into something that fit their fears.

Enough for common folk to repeat. Not enough for a cult or a top tier sect to set watchers on his trail if the talk ever drifted back to him.

Fay watched every deception, every word, every promise. She could not tell what was true and what was bait.

Radeon spoke as if he were building a bridge, and she could feel the gaps hidden under the planks.

The bandits below believed because they wanted to believe. It sent a chill through Fay as she listened.

She did not know if she was standing beside a savior or a man who only knew how to wear one.

When the crowd dispersed and the night quieted, Fay took a healing pill and let it melt down her throat.

Warmth spread through her bruises in slow relief. As she swallowed, her eyes drifted to the bison's side.

Four large crates had been strapped there. Big enough that calling them crates felt wrong.

Cabinets, almost. She probed them with qi, careful and light. Inside, everything was already sorted.

Spirit stones. Gold. Ores. Old blades. Packed into smaller compartments.

Fay could tell by the neatness that Radeon had done this before, and that he hated disorder more than danger.

In other cabinets she found supplies. Oil. Flour. Dried meat. Plain things. Necessary things.

It was not enough. Not for Radeon's style, not for the scale of the plan he kept hinting at.

It was only half a year's worth, even if they rationed. Fay felt the conclusion settle in her gut. He had other plans.

Radeon caught the change in Fay's eyes the moment it settled. The bright hunger was still there, but now it had a rim of caution.

She had watched him lie with a calm face. She had watched men swallow it like medicine. The question she did not ask was sitting behind her stare.

He knew Fay's type. She wanted everything said to her. Names. Reasons. The true shape of the road ahead. Silence made her restless.

The problem was not her learning speed. It was her experience.

Fay was too young in the ways that mattered, too new to power, too honest when a mouth should be a locked door.

If he gave her secrets too early, she might spill them by accident, in anger, in awe, in the wrong room with the wrong ears.

Some things could not be revealed. Not yet.

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