Algraves was not sure how to feel about Junktar.

  He had come into the region expecting something closer to the mud streets and waste-filled alleys he had seen in history books or old military deployments. In his mind, ancient-style towns were either picturesque or horrifying, usually the latter. But Junktar proved him wrong almost immediately. It was cleaner than he thought it would be. Not modern, not even close, but there was a certain order to it that he had not expected.

  Maybe that was just his modern-world sensibilities coloring everything. He had grown up in a place with asphalt, plumbing, trucks, concrete, and building codes. So coming to a place like this had primed him to expect filth and suffering.

  But instead he found a town that, while undeniably old-fashioned, felt lived in rather than decayed. Cared for rather than abandoned. Real.

  It reminded him, faintly, of some of the old Chinese-style architecture he had seen in documentaries and films. Wide eaves, tiered roofs, carved wooden facades, splashes of color against muted stone. Nothing perfect, nothing ornate, but practical beauty that came from craftsmen who actually understood the land they lived in.

  The main road through Junktar was the same massive road he had followed for days, built from that reddish, rounded brick that somehow fit together without mortar. The thing cut straight through the town like someone had laid down a four-lane highway and then built life around it. Both sides of Junktar clung to the road like it was a spine running through the region, a central artery that fed the town’s commerce, travelers, culture, and noise.

  After all, everything in this region seemed to revolve around the road. Quite literally. Most of the continent’s towns wrapped around it in a ring, with some branching off only where the shoreline and the Great Green’s outer edge left enough land to support settlements.

  He had expected the side roads to be another story entirely. Hard-packed dirt if he was lucky. Mud pits if he wasn’t. Maybe slick with waste, maybe worn with ruts so deep that carts snapped wheels just trying to navigate them.

  So when he stepped off the main thoroughfare and saw that most subsidiary roads were flattened, hardened, and overlaid with something like peat gravel or crushed stone, he blinked. The surface was rougher than the main road for sure, but still surprisingly uniform, noticeably cleaner than he had any right to expect.

  Probably also helped keep everything from becoming a swamp during rainy season. Smart.

  He also noticed the absence of human waste. No chamber pot slop, no midden heaps in the alleys, no overflowing trash piles buzzing with flies. People were not spotless here, far from it, but the streets themselves were kept tidy.

  Whether that was because the townsfolk managed their own refuse or because the town had some form of rudimentary sewer system, he could not tell. But the difference was noticeable.

  That was not to say the place smelled great. Most of the people here were mortals, working class, and bathing was clearly reserved for necessity or special occasions. The town smelled like sweat, livestock, dust, and bodies. But mingled among that were far more pleasant fragrances: cooking spices, grilled meats, fresh produce, warm bread, incense, perfumes of varying strengths, and the clean bite of river-water being carried in buckets.

  Walking along the main road with the Cai merchant group, he passed a sprawling bazaar clustered on the western side. Tents, canopies, and stalls hammered together from wood and cloth stretched out like a colorful patchwork quilt. People milled in every direction, calling out goods, shouting prices, waving vegetables or trinkets or jewelry or skewers of grilled meat in the air as enticement.

  On the opposite side of the road stood the more important-looking buildings. Administrative structures, trade houses, storage facilities, perhaps even a cultivator outpost or two. He was still too new to this world to guess exactly what each building was supposed to be, but the energy of purpose emanated from them.

  It all hit him at once, the noise, the movement, the press of bodies and scent and sound, and made him recognize again that he was no longer part of the world he had once known. Everything here existed without the convenience or comfort of modern technology, yet people adapted. They survived. They thrived.

  He sucked in a breath, let the overwhelming mixture of sensations wash past him, and reminded himself that he would get used to it.

  Ren Cai and Yon Cai paused their caravan entry long enough to explain that they needed to move through the markets and check their usual stall arrangements. They also needed to scout for last-minute purchases before leaving town again.

  They told Algraves they would be staying in Junktar for a couple of days to wait for deliveries and potential transport contracts.

  As thanks for his help, they invited him to stay at the Cai Pavilion, their family compound on the eastern edge of town. When he was ready, he could show the small carved badge they gave him to one of the guards and be let in at any time. He could stay as long as he needed.

  Algraves appreciated it. He also knew it was mutually beneficial. A cultivator staying under their roof meant safety, whether implied or real. If trouble arrived, they had someone who could fight back.

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  Still, he liked the Cai merchants. He liked their honesty, their straightforward way of handling things. He liked that they tried to treat him like a person rather than a tool to be used.

  So he accepted.

  When they split up, he moved into the markets to sell the textiles and fabrics he had recovered from the robed bandit. It was there that he discovered the region used silver, gold, and spirit stones as currency.

  Silver was the standard. Everyday purchases were measured in thin stamped rectangles of silver called slips. Ten slips equaled one silver bar. Ten silver bars equaled a single gold crescent. Gold was rarely used for small purchases. A gold crescent could buy a week’s worth of food or several nights at a respectable inn.

  Spirit stones were a different matter entirely. They were not carved or minted but harvested. A low-grade spirit stone was worth anywhere from ten to fifty gold crescents depending on purity, and no merchant in their right mind used them casually. Cultivators consumed them directly for training. Mortals used them as energy sources for rare formations or tools. They served as emergency currency between cultivators and as a power source for specific cultivation artifacts.

  Algraves stored all that information away for later use.

  Hours passed as he sold some of his goods and bought others. Eventually he settled down in what he assumed was a tea house. The interior was dimly lit and comfortable, fragrant with steam and herbs. He drank a tea that one of his wives would have adored, floral and soft, and ate dumplings filled with delicious yet deeply suspicious meat.

  He snorted at himself. If it smelled good, eat it. If it tasted good, ask no questions.

  That rule had saved him once in Haifa. After the owner told him what he had eaten, he had nearly spent an hour trying not to vomit. Lesson learned.

  He leaned back and reviewed his purchases. Two different types of fowl, one black-feathered bird that looked like a chicken’s gothic cousin, the other something that might be a duck. He hoped it was duck. He really hoped it was not goose.

  They were affordable, cleaned, and would store well in his pouch.

  Speaking of the pouch, he had discovered something interesting. It preserved everything inside. Perfectly. No rot. No decay. Time did not seem to pass. Hot food stayed hot. Cold food stayed cold.

  That was astonishing.

  Along with the fowl, he picked up a few slabs of red meat that smelled like beef or buffalo. Whatever it was, he was going to cook it. Add carrots, potatoes, onions, garlic, ginger, some bitter roots. A meal was a meal.

  Seasonings had been disappointing though. No rosemary. No sage except the bitter grass substitute. No paprika. No chili. No cayenne. No cinnamon. No vanilla. Absolutely no black pepper, which genuinely alarmed him.

  Salt he had, fresh herbs, some silver basil that tasted like real basil but cost a small fortune. Pepper leaf flakes were his best approximation of a heat spice, but even that fell drastically short.

  He missed the flavors of home. Mexican spice blends. Vietnamese fish sauces and herbs. American comfort food. He wanted chili. Real chili. Beans and cumin and smoked paprika and heat.

  But there were no beans either. No corn. No barley. No wheat that he had seen yet.

  This really was a different world.

  After finishing his tea and dumplings, he paid his bill (still unsure if he was overcharged) and made his way to the Cai Pavilion.

  Two large guards watched the entrance. Neither was a cultivator, but both were clearly capable of smashing a skull if needed. He showed his badge, and they let him through.

  Inside, a servant greeted him. The young woman bowed politely and guided him to his temporary quarters, a small bungalow-like room with a sleeping mat and some modest furnishings. Off to the side was a tiny walled courtyard, just big enough for meditation or light movement.

  It was simple, but it was shelter, and that was enough.

  He was told dinner would be held in the main house at sundown, and someone would fetch him.

  He still had a few hours, so he sat down and began cultivation. The qi here was thinner than near the forest or the pond. Not terrible, but noticeably less rich. It made sense. The deeper one went into the Great Green, the stronger everything became.

  He wondered briefly if cultivators selected homes based on qi density. Probably. People always gravitated toward the best resources. Why would cultivators be different?

  Near sunset, the servant returned and gently roused him. He followed her through a side entrance into a hallway that led to a warm dining area where the Cai family gathered around a low table. Bowls of rice, shared dishes, sauces, communal eating. The space was comfortable, lived in, filled with the soft murmur of family chatter and the occasional laugh.

  It reminded him of home. A little too much.

  He had also learned, to his embarrassment, that he had been saying their names wrong. He had corrected them repeatedly about his own name only to discover he was the one who had misunderstood their naming convention. Last name first, personal name second. Like certain naming traditions in his old world.

  Cai Ren. Cai Yon. Not Ren Cai. Not Yon Cai.

  He grumbled inwardly at himself. New world. New rules. Stop screwing up.

  Dinner was pleasant. Easy. He asked questions about the dishes and decided he would absolutely need to buy some cooking utensils before leaving town.

  It was only when the last sibling entered the room, hurried and quiet, that everything stopped inside him.

  She nodded to her family, then to him.

  And his world froze.

  He stopped hearing. Stopped thinking. Stopped breathing.

  Because the face that looked back at him was one he knew from decades ago. A face he had memorized in high school. A face he had kissed. Loved. Lost. Mourning had buried her image in the deepest part of his soul.

  Until now.

  Her movements were reserved. Her expressions unreadable. She spoke in short, clipped replies. She carried herself like someone who held more inside than she ever said.

  Just like…

  He shot to his feet without realizing he had moved.

  Everyone stared at him.

  He did not see them. He did not see anything except her.

  Finally, in a voice that cracked with recognition and pain, he whispered:

  “Theresa?”