(Meanwhile Planet Wamir, Veyr's POV)
*Flutter*
*Paper Crinkling*
The poster fluttered weakly in the desert breeze, its edges curled and sun-bleached, yet the face upon it still stared back with haunting clarity — sharp eyes, dark hair, and a defiant expression that seemed to be carved from pride itself.
---
Aegon Veyr.
Dragon of the Evil Cult.
Wanted Dead or Alive.
Reward: 200 Billion MP Alive.
50 Billion Dead.
2 Billion for Verified Proof of Existence.
---
It was, by every imaginable standard, an absurd sum of money, enough to buy a couple solar systems, or to start one of the universe's most prominent merchant groups from scratch.
Veyr stood silently before it, his hood drawn low, the coarse fabric brushing his jawline as he watched two men chatting idly beside him.
"Two hundred billion, can you believe that?" one said, squinting at the poster. "That's not a bounty, that's a god's ransom."
The other man snorted. "I heard he's hiding right here on Wamir. My cousin's neighbor swears he saw a man matching his description down at the lower docks."
"Your cousin's neighbor also swore his goat laid eggs last year," the first replied dryly, earning a laugh.
"Maybe. But if I see him, I'm turning him in myself. Two billion just for proof? Even a blurred photo will do! You'd have to be mad not to try."
They chuckled as they walked off, never realizing that the man they spoke of, the monster the entire universe hunted, stood right beside them, his eyes cold and quiet behind an ordinary face.
Veyr turned his gaze back to the poster, studying his own likeness.
Under [Shapeshift], his appearance had changed completely. His skin was darker, rougher. His hair thinned and grayed. The proud, fierce face of a Dragon had been replaced by that of a weary middle-aged trader who looked like he had more debts than teeth.
His aura, once bright and suffocating, had been buried deep within, sealed until even the air around him felt mundane.
He could pass through crowded streets now without a second glance.
But safety was an illusion, one he did not dare believe in.
'The Righteous Faction seems to have diverted all their attention towards catching me.
I can not let my guard down even for a second, for every eye here is looking to catch even the faintest glimpse of my face.'
He thought as he exhaled slowly, lowering his head and stepping away from the wall.
The streets of Wamir were louder than usual today, buzzing with the same topic that had seized every corner of the universe: the fall of Ixtal.
Vendors shouted over each other in the markets, peddling imported relics and black market charms, their words occasionally breaking into gossip.
Children played with makeshift paper ships painted in Righteous colors, shouting, "Down with the Cult!" as if it were a game.
Even the drunks slumped against alley walls had opinions to share.
"Did you see the footage? They flattened Ixtal in a single wave!"
"Good riddance! I say burn them all, every last heretic!"
"The Righteous Fleet finally did what no one else could, wiped those beasts out!"
Veyr's steps slowed, his eyes narrowing as he listened.
The words pierced his pride sharper than any blade.
Hatred echoed so casually from mouths that had never even seen a battlefield.
'Is this what the great Cult Of Ascension has been reduced to?' he thought bitterly. 'Fables and mockery. Two thousand years of struggle, erased with one broadcast?'
He pulled his hood tighter, crossing the bustling avenue until the scent of baked bread reached him.
The same scent that he was used to smelling back on the streets of Tithia as a kid, as ahead, tucked between a spice merchant and an apothecary, stood a small bakery with a red awning.
'The Flour & Flame'
To most, it was an ordinary shop.
But to those who knew, it was one of the Cult's last silent assets on Wamir — a place of coded exchanges and hidden couriers set up by the First Elder 20 years ago.
Veyr stopped across the street, pretending to browse a nearby fruit stall, his eyes flicking to the glass window of the bakery.
Inside, he saw the Cult baker kneading dough with calm precision, a faint tune humming under his breath.
From afar, everything looked normal, almost too normal.
However, as Veyr shifted his gaze from the bakery to the street outside, he saw three men standing at varying distances pretending to mind their own business, however, they all had their eyes drawn towards the bakery entrance.
One adjusted his shoe for far too long.
Another leaned against a lamppost, his hand resting suspiciously close to the grip of his concealed dagger.
The third pretended to read a newspaper, but hadn't flipped a page in over two minutes.
'They're spies, they're noting down who goes in and out of the bakery,' Veyr noted, his expression unchanged.
'Someone has compromised the Cult network, I can no longer enter.'
He realized, as the smell of warm bread drifted toward him, sweet and nostalgic, but the air itself felt heavy.
He lingered a few more seconds, then turned away without a word, his footsteps quiet against the cobblestones.
'I don't have any other immediate contacts that I can rely on... this is going to be a real headache.'
He realised, as he blended back into the moving crowd, his heartbeat steady but his thoughts cold.
'I need to periodically remind my people that I'm still alive, so that they don't lose hope, but I can't do it recklessly, I must do it with intense planning.'
Veyr concluded, folding the thought inward as he melted into alleyways, moving like smoke between stalls while his mind catalogued faces and safe havens.
He kept an eye out for enemies, while also searching for fellow Cult members, as he began noting who looked nervous and who looked bought, knowing that for now the best plan was caution and observation, and that surviving another day was the only victory he could possibly claim tonight.
(More chapters in Buyers club for TMT)