Blake’s legs treaded on empty air. He soared across the street, arcing through the air.

  He wasn’t going to make it. If he even hit the other side, he wasn’t going to stick the landing.

  He shut his eyes and drew in a sharp breath, and wrenched his body under control. He pulled his legs together and stopped flailing. Then, with all his might, he kicked out, arching his back and giving himself slightly more distance and height.

  When he landed on the raised metal lattice on the opposite side of the street, his arms wheeled, and he swayed, but he stayed upright. He leaned forward, then, with the help of his length of rebar, pushed himself back on-balance.

  The cultivators were coming. Svarikson would catch up, and he’d still give Blake the beating of a lifetime—especially now that Blake had tried to run away. Blake might have struggled to cross the gap, being only at the second stage of Mana Condensation, but Svarikson and the others could get over in a single leap.

  But that was only if they thought Blake had crossed the gap. They would underestimate him. Cultivators always did. As long as they didn’t see him, they’d assume he jumped down to the ground.

  Blake ran across the lattice, keeping his footsteps soft. The rusty metal still shuddered and clanged with each step, and he winced. When he reached a dark, damaged hole in the wall and tucked himself away, the sounds stopped.

  And it was just in time. On the other side of the street, Svarikson and his two thugs climbed out the window. They stepped onto the lattice and looked around, before shaking their heads.

  Blake leaned out just enough that he could see the other side of the street with one eye, but not enough to let the light shine across his face. The cultivators talked quietly amongst themselves. Svarikson shook his head and pointed down at the ground below, then snapped, “Why did you mention the ring? We can’t let the word spread, or every sect-master in the quadrant will come looking.”

  “Apologies, honoured Land-Master,” a cultivator said. “It won’t happen again.”

  Blake didn’t even breathe. They wouldn’t sense him. They wouldn’t get proper spiritual senses until they reached Foundation Establishment. They might notice a swell of mana if a powerful cultivator was coming up behind them, but they weren’t going to pick Blake out from a sea of other mortals or near-mortals.

  After a few seconds, the cultivators climbed back inside the apartment building and disappeared. Blake waited. It might have been a trap to lure him out, and he wasn’t going to risk it. Not when he was on the cusp of freedom.

  His heart pounded, and his hands began jittering. There was a whole world out there. He was inches away from seizing it.

  Finally, when a few minutes had passed, he’d waited long enough. He stepped out of his nook, and light washed over him once more. He froze, waiting, ready to see if anyone was going to pounce and attack.

  Nothing came.

  With a grin, Blake began climbing, leaping from jutting handholds to ledges, and scrambling onto abandoned air ducts or hanging wires. There was no sense going down to the streets. Svarikson would be looking for him down there, and Blake was an easy guy to spot.

  Instead, he took the more dangerous road.

  After climbing up past five storeys, the buildings had no inhabitants. They hadn’t been reinforced at all, and they were starting to crumble. The tower he’d just climbed up to was tilting, and the only reason it hadn’t collapsed yet was because it had another building to lean against.

  First things first, Blake needed supplies. If he was going to venture off into the merge-mists, he’d need something to eat.

  He crossed the abandoned sixth floor of the tower, watching his step and making sure he didn’t fall through any holes in the floor. When he reached the other side, he looked up, checking for any falling debris, then jumped across the alleyway to the next tower. It was another housing block, but on its first floor, there was a supply store which, by Dynasty law, had to stay open all hours of the day.

  He descended down the building’s side using a fire escape until he reached an open door. He darted into a gloomy hallway. Light still seeped out from beneath some of the rooms’ doors, and he could smell something cooking. A pair of Blended rats with miniature antlers hung from the ceiling, tied up by their tails. It was a superstition—that if you hung a Blended rat, its corpse would keep monsters away.

  Blake only believed that it made the entire hallway smell awful.

  He ran down the hall as quickly as he could, until he finally reached the stairs. He descended until he reached the main floor, where the old residential building’s lobby would’ve been.

  Most of the shops had closed down for the night. The watermongers didn’t have to stay open, nor did any of the textile sellers or blacksmiths. But since the Blended District was the last stop before the merge-mists, the supply shops were a go-to for departing cultivators.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Blake visually checked the lobby, making sure it was empty, then ran across the scuffed marble floors until he reached the only shop that hadn’t covered its windows with metal panels. A sign hung above the door, reading Tondr’s Convenience, both in English and Dynasty script.

  Blake stepped inside, then shut the door behind him. He stopped to catch his breath and looked around. The store itself was no larger than an apartment, and it felt even smaller with how many shelves had been packed into it. Aisles snaked back and forth through the center, stuffed with packets of dried travelling rations and other basic tools. There were some alchemical ingredients—herbs, rare feathers, vials of monster venom and concentrated fiendsmoke, and more that he couldn’t name. He ignored them for the more practical equipment.

  Blake couldn’t afford any of the tools, not if he wanted to eat. Everyone knew the travelling rations were overpriced, but the stores didn’t give you much of a choice.

  The only light came from a couple candles beside the door, and from a torch behind the counter.

  “Blake?” came a voice from the back of the store. “Or…apologies, Bjarke?”

  Blake ran around the edge of the store, dodging the aisles, until he reached the back counter. A young man, about his age, stood behind the desk, wearing a simple thrall’s tunic. He was a Blended, but his blend was with a tree-like creature (which Blake was pretty sure was called a treelent), giving him green leaves for hair and wooden protrusions all over his skin.

  “Yeah, Arlo, it’s me,” Blake whispered. Arlo wasn’t his Dynasty-given name, but Blake didn’t care. “I need travelling rations.”

  “W—why?” Arlo stammered. He leaned forward and pressed his hands down on the counter. “What did you do this time? Oh, it’s really bad, isn’t it, if you’re leaving town?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Blake, I can’t bail you out this time. I—I can’t be an alibi for you if you’ve done something horrible.”

  “Nothing,” Blake lied. No need to rope Arlo into this and ruin the boy’s future. “I’m just tired of cooking for myself.”

  Arlo didn’t have a rank seal, either, but Blake knew the boy had made it to the third stage of Mana Condensation. He’d been studying to try to get admitted to the outer court of a Centertown sect—the Green Bear Sect. If Arlo could break through into the fourth stage on his own, they might let him in, even if he was a Blended. The fourth stage was about as good as he would get without formal guidance or Fates-defying talent. But if they found out he’d helped Blake…

  “I don’t believe you,” Arlo said.

  “You never do,” Blake countered. He unzipped his backpack and pulled out the container of hacksilver. “I need as many ration packs as this will get me.”

  “That’s your rent money!” Arlo exclaimed. “Oh my god—I mean, on the Fates! Blake, whatever it is, please don’t do it. You’re going to get yourself killed…” He tilted his head. “Did you finally make Svarikson kick you out?”

  “Uh, close,” Blake replied. “Was I that predictable? Actually, you know what, I don’t want to know. Look, I don’t have time for this. Will you sell me the rations or not? Tondr might take you off the night shift with all these sales…you could actually have time to study for the…whateveryoucallit sect entrance exam. Get yourself out of this dump.”

  Blake knew well enough that it was called the Green Bear Sect, but he didn’t say that. It’d put Arlo less on edge.

  “Alright, but promise me you’ll be okay,” Arlo insisted.

  “I…can’t do that.”

  Blake was fine with a lie or two here and there, but breaking a promise? He couldn’t do that.

  “Stop making this harder than it has to be!” Arlo groaned. Still, he turned to the shelf behind him and snatched up an armful of paper parcels. Inside, they contained dehydrated berries, jerky, and hearty groats that would fill your stomach without taking too much room in your bag.

  “Nah, I’m good at that.” Blake grinned and passed over the container of hacksilver. It wouldn't do much good in the wilds except weigh him down, and though he did enjoy collecting the odd shiny thing now and then, the hacksilver was just a reminder of his daily water collecting slog.

  He checked each packet of supplies, making sure they weren’t moldy (sometimes, the convenience stores would sell rotten supplies), then tucked them back into his bag.

  “I wouldn’t sell you anything rotten, Blake,” Arlo insisted. “Jeez, you’ve always been like this, since reeducation. Tondr would’ve flogged you for the insult.”

  Blake shrugged, then stuffed the ration packets in his backpack. “My bad. Sorry. Didn’t mean it as an insult.” He hadn’t really considered that it’d be an insult up until now, either, but he could sorta see how it could be taken that way. “I’ll be off.”

  “Just be careful!”

  “I might!” Blake zipped up his backpack, then ran out into the alleyway.

  “And why do you have to…ugh, get that stupid grin off your face!”

  “I’ll try.”

  Blake crept to the street corner. No one seemed to be looking for him, so he was probably safe to take a side street.

  If he ran out into the merge-mists now, though, he wouldn’t live until morning. Some monster would find him and eat him. But if he stayed in the city, he would probably get himself caught. Svarikson would find more men and canvas all his properties—which covered almost half the city—until he caught Blake.

  And then Blake was dead. Or beaten senseless, and then he’d not be able to work, and he’d die anyway from starvation or dehydration. He was a thrall, after all. Thralls used to be slaves, but a Nord king had outlawed the practice, and now, they were more like serfs. Just workers who owned almost nothing and rented everything. If he couldn’t pay, he was done for.

  But he had a better idea than just running and hoping. Svarikson had needed the rent money for something. An Honour Ring. Whatever that was, had to be useful. If it was worth the trouble of demanding rent from all his renters a day early, it had to be valuable.

  To mana cultivators, something was only valuable if it could help them kill stuff or get stronger. The ring could help him survive until morning.

  Besides, what better parting gift than to take the ring for himself? He couldn’t exactly bid on it, but if he could make it disappear before anyone even tried to pay for it…

  It wasn’t an ideal situation, but it was the only solution he could think of. The only way to stay alive. He began walking toward the Centertown District.