(Meanwhile Planet Wamir, Veyr's POV)
The merchant vessel broke through the thin blue haze of Wamir's upper atmosphere, its hull rattling faintly as it descended toward one of the planet's countless trade ports scattered across the sprawling desert plains.
From the small cabin window, Veyr could see the surface below which looked like an endless stretch of ochre sand, broken only by the banners of different merchant conglomerates that called this neutral world home.
There were no borders here, no single ruler or god, only commerce and the silent promise that everything could be bought or betrayed for the right price.
*Hisss*
*Thunk*
The ship's landing gear locked into place as it touched down on a crowded docking bay.
The moment the doors slid open, a wave of heat and noise flooded in — the shouts of traders, the rumble of cargo lifters, the hum of mana engines, and the dull clatter of machinery all blending into an unending symphony of survival.
Veyr pulled his hood tighter and adjusted the black cloak that now hid most of his features, keeping his head low as he stepped out of the vessel.
He looked nothing like the infamous Dragon the Cult revered, for he had used [Shapeshift] to transform into an unassuming looking commoner, his face aged and wrinkled, while his hair looked unkempt and dirty.
His deep black eyes were dulled into a dirty gray, his regal aura suppressed entirely through sheer will, as no-one even turned to look at him twice as he walked.
*Step*
*Step*
*Step*
Veyr quickly moved past the bustling port checkpoints, his movements slow but deliberate, as he blended into the sea of strangers who lived and died by their own coin.
The smell of burnt oil and spices filled the air as he passed rows of stalls selling cheap weapons, counterfeit artifacts, and fresh loot from Cult worlds that were recently negotiated to carry passengers aboard their ships.
Everywhere he looked, he saw hostile insignias: the Universal Government, the Du Clan, the Mu Clan, each flying side by side under Wamir's treaty of neutrality, each pretending not to notice the others' spies among them.
He kept his eyes forward, his heartbeat steady.
There was no safety here, not truly. Wamir prided itself on neutrality, but MP spoke louder than law, and the bounty on his head was worth more than most could even dream of making in a thousand lifetimes.
A single word whispered to the wrong ear could end his life before nightfall, and Veyr knew that very well.
This wasn't Cult territory anymore. This was a hostile world, where peace existed not through morality, but through fear and greed in equal measure.
*Step*
*Step*
He stopped briefly at a crowded intersection where several street performers drew a small crowd.
One of them, a masked bard, was singing a song about the recent fall of Tithia, his words twisting the truth into mockery as he declared the "righteous cleansing" the Evil Cult, while the audience laughed and clapped and filled his hat with mana crystals and gold coins.
Veyr's hand clenched inside his cloak, his nails digging into his palm until it hurt, yet he said nothing. He only turned away and kept walking.
From being the most adored Dragon who once roamed freely through the cobbled streets of the Cult's core worlds, he had now become a nameless shadow, another wanderer swallowed by foreign crowds.
And as the wind picked up, tugging at the edges of his cloak, he pulled it tighter around himself and walked into the noise and smoke of the neutral city, leaving behind everything he had once been.
From now on, he would live as a shadow and only pop up periodically to remind his people that he too lived amongst them on this planet.
But aside from that, he planned to remain deep undercover, and trust no-one.
---
Across the city, high above the dust-choked markets and the clamor of landing crafts, inside a dim tavern that doubled as an intelligence hub for off-record dealings, two men sat in the farthest booth with their heads low and their voices barely above a whisper. MORE CHAPTERS IN https://t.me/+IgvjUgdznpsyZDky
The older one, dressed in plain trader robes that could have belonged to anyone, tapped a small holo-screen on the table, its light flickering faintly in the smoke-filled air. "The latest report came through less than an hour ago," he muttered. "Central Command believes the Dragon, Aegon Veyr, may have abandoned Ixtal before its inevitable fall and is heading here, to Wamir."
The younger man, lean and sharp-eyed, froze mid-sip. "Here? On this planet?"
"Yes," the older one replied quietly, his gaze steady. "Our contacts on Ixtal saw him boarding a ship headed for Wamir, so we are to monitor all arrivals and send word the moment anything suspicious appears."
He leaned closer, lowering his tone even more. "And if we manage to confirm his presence with visual proof, even a partial photograph of his face, or trade in an item like a piece of clothing that is confirmed to belong to him... the reward for such a simple task alone exceeds one billion MP."
The younger man's eyes widened, his breath catching for a second as greed flickered across his face. "A billion... just for information, are you sure?"
The older spy nodded, a faint, humorless smile playing on his lips. "Enough to buy your own moon. Enough to never work again. But tread carefully. If the Evil Cult's Dragon truly is here, then we are not the only ones looking for him. Every assassin, bounty hunter, and righteous zealot in this sector will soon descend upon this planet like vultures."
Outside, the night winds of Wamir howled across the steel rooftops, carrying with them the scent of dust and gunpowder, as somewhere in that endless crowd, a hooded figure slipped deeper into the shadows.
Neither spy knew it yet, but their prey had already landed.
And with his arrival, Wamir's fragile neutrality was sure to soon crumble.
(More chapters in Buyers club for TMT)