Insomniac Player

The medicine district spread across seven connected streets, and every single shop on them claimed to house the greatest healer in Murim. Damien counted thirty-two signs using the word "divine," nineteen promising life extension, eleven advertising bone regrowth, and one offering a refund if the customer happened to remain dead afterward.

That last shop had the longest line by far. He didn’t join it.

The streets narrowed the deeper he walked, tall buildings leaning in over stone paths shaded by strips of green silk. Herbs grew in wooden boxes along the walls, leaves glowing faintly under formation lamps. Steam rolled off bronze cauldrons somewhere out of sight. Apprentices hurried between shops carrying sealed cases while physicians in clean robes examined patients under open pavilions. It looked like a hospital designed by alchemists who’d gotten a little too competitive with their advertising.

He walked slowly, reading every sign he passed.

[Golden Meridian Hall, Internal Injuries, Broken Cores, Qi Deviation]

[Nine Fragrance Pavilion, Poisons, Curses and Spiritual Parasites]

[Peaceful Dream House, Nightmares, Mental Demons and Restorative Sleep]

He stopped at the last one. The building was painted pale blue, wind chimes hanging beneath the roof, their soft rhythm coaxing a yawn out of half the customers waiting nearby. A silver crescent decorated the door.

Restorative sleep. Promising. He took one step toward it.

A voice cut in. "Honored dark master!"

He stopped.

A merchant launched himself out of the neighboring stall and bowed so deeply his forehead nearly clipped his own counter, a round man in orange robes, six rings on each hand, a smile sharpened by years of practice.

"This humble one recognized at once that ordinary medicines could never satisfy someone of such distinguished standing."

Damien glanced behind him. Nobody distinguished had shown up.

The merchant pressed on. "May I interest the master in our Silent Heart Pill? It removes fatigue, hunger, distraction, and unnecessary emotion for a full seven days."

"Does it grant true sleep?"

"No, master. It does not."

"A cure unable to end the illness only perfects it."

The merchant’s smile flickered. "Perhaps the Black Coffin Rest Pill, then. One dose guarantees twelve hours of complete unconsciousness."

Damien waited. There was clearly more to that sentence.

"...A slight risk of remaining unconscious," the merchant added.

The silence stretched.

"Permanently is, technically, a duration."

Whatever expression the mask hid must have carried plenty of judgment on its own, because the man slid the bottle right back under the counter. "A discerning customer."

Damien said nothing and turned back toward the Peaceful Dream House. The whole exchange had drawn more eyes than he wanted. Patients glanced his way. Apprentices slowed down mid-step. A woman carrying a basket of silver leaves whispered something to her companion while staring straight at his cloak.

He’d expected the red hair to separate Earthling from Damien. He hadn’t expected it to work like a public announcement instead. Most Murim natives wore their hair long too, but bound neatly with pins, ribbons, crowns. His thick, loose braid looked foreign against all of it, and paired with black baggy clothes, a deep hood, and Rahul’s demonic mask, it added up to no sect, no region, no race anyone here could place.

Nobody could identify him, and people hated an empty space in their own understanding. They filled it with whatever explanation sounded most interesting.

So far, the leading theory seemed to be wandering demonic master.

Imran had told him he’d need more than a hidden name, a real public persona too. Fine. This counted as practice.

He stepped into the Peaceful Dream House, a wave of lavender-scented air rolling over him as the door closed behind him. The reception chamber held low couches, painted screens, a shallow pool filled with pale blue sand. Every sound seemed to soften the moment it crossed the threshold.

A young woman in pale robes sat behind the counter, a narrow sword resting openly beside her ledger. Her professional smile dropped the instant she saw him.

"Welcome, honored guest." Her eyes flicked past him, checking, probably, for anyone else who might have come along with him. "How may the Peaceful Dream House serve you?"

"I seek release from sleeplessness."

She waited a beat. "Only insomnia?"

He nodded.

"How long have you suffered from it?"

"Since my first memory."

Her expression shifted, caution giving way to something more clinical. "And ordinary sleeping remedies?"

"Powerless."

"Natural unconsciousness, ever?"

"When the debt finally comes due, my body drops into a coma for days at a time."

She lowered her brush. "That is not ordinary insomnia."

"A strange remark is still a warning."

She let that pass without comment and pulled a translucent jade tablet out from under the counter, symbols scrolling across it as she logged his answers. "Your level?"

"Twenty."

The brush stopped a second time. Her eyes moved over the mask, the cloak, the braid. "Twenty?"

"A low beginning says nothing about where the road ends."

Somewhere behind a painted screen, a muffled breath escaped that sounded suspiciously like genuine awe.

She recovered her composure. "The treatments available at this branch handle nightmares, shallow sleep, and common mental disturbances. A lifelong condition that survived system integration needs a full diagnosis first."

"Where does that answer live?"

"Not here." She turned the tablet and pressed two fingers against it, and a map bloomed in the air above the counter, the medicine district spreading out with a path leading beyond the city’s northern wall. "You’ll want the main diagnostic hall at the Dreaming Moon Pavilion."

The map drifted across the room and settled into his own interface.

➤[Location Received: Dreaming Moon Pavilion]

It sat halfway up one of the mountains he’d already spotted from the Sanctuary square.

Of course it did.

"How far?"

"Three hundred forty li, along the northern road."

He waited for the system to convert that into something a reasonable person actually used for measuring distance. A li worked out to roughly five hundred meters, which put the pavilion somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred seventy kilometers out.

"The Cloudstep Transit Formation can carry you to the lower gate, if you’re able to pay for it."

"Its price?"

"Two spirit stones for a local. Twenty for an unregistered visitor."

There it was, the traditional welcome extended to newcomers everywhere across every dimension apparently, extra fees.

He checked the currency notes Rahul had sent over. Spirit stones weren’t gold coins, and he had exactly none of them.

"Where does gold turn into stone?"

"The Thousand Paths Exchange, beside the lotus lake."

He’d walked right past it twenty minutes ago. He looked up at the ceiling. The universe remained entirely unmoved by his suffering.

"Kindness noted, and remembered."

As he turned to leave, she spoke again. "Honored Earthling." Checking his name off the tablet, apparently.

He paused. Hearing the fake name spoken back to him by a stranger felt oddly strange. "Speak."

"The Dreaming Moon Pavilion is well respected, but the road past the transit gate crosses disputed territory. Outsiders shouldn’t travel it alone."

He nodded, keeping his own words rationed for effect.

"You may also want to stop hiding your weapon."

He glanced back at her.

Her eyes moved pointedly toward his concealed hands. "In Murim, a hidden blade suggests hidden intentions. Your whole appearance already invites enough speculation without adding to it."

"What shape does rumor take?"

She hesitated. The voice behind the painted screen answered for her instead.

"They’re saying you’re the escaped heir of a demonic clan."

He considered that for a second. "An hour can birth a great many lies."

"Rumors here grow faster than people do."

He stepped back out into the market, and dozens of faces turned away a fraction of a second too late. Two young swordsmen suddenly found a basket of medicinal roots fascinating. The orange-robed pill merchant watched him with a new, respectful sort of caution.

He pulled the First Blood Dagger out from under his cloak and fixed the sheath openly at his hip.

It looked almost primitive next to Murim’s elegant blades. Somehow that only made the staring worse. Whispers trailed him down the street.

"That dagger carries killing intent."

"Looks like a beast’s tooth."

"Might’ve belonged to an ancient demon."

"His level must be hidden. Has to be."

He kept walking toward the lotus lake, red braid swaying against the black cloak. His identity was safe. His face stayed hidden. Nobody could connect Earthling back to Damien.

By every technical measure, the disguise worked flawlessly. It had also, somehow, made him the single most noticeable person in the entire district.

Another whisper reached him from somewhere behind. "The Dark Master’s heading north."

He sighed under the mask. "Should I just mail this thing back to Rahul."

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The character image of Earthling has been uploaded.