Rites

See the Unseen Blade

Merchants wage wars where no blood is spilled—but how many other battlefields like this exist? [xiaochou.name] seeks to understand these invisible blades, to meet those who wield them… or those who bleed from them.

ID: 5000334

Type: None

Tips: None

Duration: 1 days

Waits For: 0 days

Marked as New Only on First Occurrence: 0

Starts Automatically: No

Triggers Result Automatically: No

Tag Tips: None

Tag Tips Up: None

Tag Tips Text:

Random Text: None

Random Text Up: None

Actions When Wait Expires

This rite has no actions when the wait expires.

Slots

Slot #1
The Mirror

Locks: No

Is Key: No

Is Empty: No

Is Enemy: No

Conditions:

Pops: None

Slot #2
Maybe someone is interested in this topic

Locks: No

Is Key: No

Is Empty: No

Is Enemy: No

Conditions:

Pops: None

Activation Conditions

This rite has no activation conditions.

Outcome

Prior

This rite has no prior outcome.

Regular

You found Jawad in a shop, hunched over a thick stack of ledgers, scribbling away. At your arrival, he first directed his clerk to usher you into the back parlor, then joined you after a long while, greeting you with warm familiarity.

“[player.name] says you’re the city’s most cunning opportunist, the shrewdest in trade—so you must have ruined the most lives,” [s1.name] said bluntly. “Tell me their stories. Or yours.”

“Oh, I’m flattered,” Jawad rubbed his hands, his smile still genial—though his fingertips were stained with red ink, lending him an air of quiet ruthlessness. “In my youth, I sailed the coastal trade routes. A single voyage took half a year! I was lucky—I scraped together a modest fortune. But luck runs both ways. A man could lose his way, be robbed, see his goods spoiled or lost—or worse, arrive at his destination only to find no buyers! Every merchant gambles his fortune, his life, on a single throw of the dice: grow rich or go broke. How many have I ruined? I was fighting for survival!”

Stroking his beard, Jawad concluded: “A man must fill his belly before he speaks of morals, don’t you agree?”

“Yet your belly is far from empty now,” [s1.name] pointed out sharply.

“Too soon to rest!” Jawad shook his head vigorously. “I’m an old man, near the grave—but what of my little Arumina? I must prepare more for her. Always more.”

Conditions:

Result:

You waited until Arzuna finished her final dance before summoning her. The damp strands of hair clinging to her forehead traced a delicate, graceful arc. Yet [s1.name] paid no mind to her beauty, asking instead: “In your eyes, who has spilled the most blood?”

Arzuna’s gaze flickered to you, as if searching for some clue about this guest you’d brought—but then, compelled by the mirror’s magic, she spoke her mind: “Parents.”

You stared at her, startled, and before you could stop yourself, you echoed: “Why?” She met your eyes, her smile edged with bitterness. “Like beasts, they abandon or kill their sick children, their starving children, their disobedient children, the ones who refuse to grow as they demand. They force you into their mold—or erase you entirely. Everyone says we owe our lives to our fathers and mothers, that we must be grateful. Yet no one dares say that their children die because of their expectations, their so-called love. A soul dies the moment it’s shaped and twisted to another’s will! If I’d come into this world alone—no father, no mother—what kind of person might I have been? I’ll never know. But I doubt I’d be a dancer.”

You stood silent, struck wordless.

Conditions:

Result:

You arrived at Amur’s estate to find it steeped in the faint scent of medicinal herbs. Amur himself, ruddy-cheeked and steady on his feet, welcomed you inside and urged—with visible reluctance—that you partake in some rare, precious tonic wine. After [s1.name] politely declined, it cut straight to the point: “I hear you’ve killed quite a few people.”

He paused, then nodded with a smile. “Indeed. Many. All of them young, beautiful girls. Now they are part of me—fuel for my life, my vitality. But no one can accuse me of guilt, dear friend, for judging a man’s crimes is a judge’s duty… and I am a judge.”

“I defend the wicked, lighten sentences for rapists, ensure nobles can slaughter commoners with impunity—cloaked in privilege and justified by mercy.” He gave you a knowing, revolting grin. “If there are laws you’d like… adjusted, my lord, I am at your service. After all, your protection has spared me no small trouble.”

[s1.name]’s brow furrowed. No matter how vehemently you denied any involvement, the disgust in its eyes did not waver.

Conditions:

Result:

You found Mahir drowning in work—so much so that even your arrival, guest in tow, couldn’t pull her full attention. She listened while her hands never stilled.

“If you ask me, the thing that’s killed the most is faith,” she muttered, eyes fixed on the solution in her glass vial, her tone almost absent. “Might as well admit it—I don’t believe in gods. Not a single one. I don’t believe the heavens house them, so I built mirrors to see for myself. I won’t beg gods to end plagues, so I make my own cures… Please. Too many have died for faith. Commoners bled dry of coin, priests withered in health—and all the while, divine power is just aether. Anyone with enough can play god. Hell, I create without it. See? Gods aren’t so grand.”

“If the priests heard you say that, you’d be in real trouble! Don’t speak so recklessly,” you warned. She shrugged, careless. “Don’t know why I felt like honesty today. But it’s fine—you’ll protect me, right? Besides, we’re accomplices in stealing Aether!”

Of course. [s1.name]’s magic at work again. Still, judging by [s1.name]’s thoughtful expression, Mahir’s answer must have sufficed.

Conditions:

Result:

Fardak arrived as promised, bearing a flask of fine, distinctive wine. Beneath the moonlight, you sat together on the ground beneath the eaves, speaking with the ease of old friends—as if [s1.name] were no stranger to either of you.

When [s1.name] asked, with little courtesy, who had wrought the most slaughter and who took joy in it, Fardak fell silent for a long while before answering:

"The god. God made our lands ever more barren. God drove us from our homes, again and again. God drown us in floods, then scour us with sandstorms. God punished worshippers with drought, with plague, with senseless ruin—does it please the God? I cannot say. But children smile when they torment ants laboring over crumbs."

His face held an eerie calm—the stillness of a man who has suffered beyond measure, who has done all he can and now has nothing left but to wait. You laid a hand on his shoulder, murmuring that this, too, would pass.

Conditions:

Result:

You brought out the finest wine and the choicest cuts to honor your most loyal poet friend. He laughed heartily, stuffing his own face until grease dripped from his chin—then, with a mischievous grin, tore strips of lamb to tease the brazier nestled in his lap...

[s1.name] cleared its throat and posed the question: "Who, in all of history, has spilled the most blood?"？

Hassan’s nose was flushed with wine as he leaned in, eyes alight, and declared with theatrical secrecy: "Let me tell you—the greatest slaughter was not wrought by sharpened steel, nor siege engines! It is the thing we write most often, recite most fondly!"

"Think! How many brutes have died for a single phrase? How many feuds ignited by words? Before wars begin, poets trade insults for days on end. After kingdoms fall, kings burn records to ensure their own praises are sung!"

He flung his arms wide, chanting in a strange, rhythmic fervor: "It is language! Words! Poetry! The thing even Sultan and god fear—the thing they seek to destroy!"

Amid his impassioned cries, the Mutton Stove chewed indifferently on the half-finished, crumpled drafts that had spilled from his pockets... Well... You could only hope Hassan wouldn’t cling to you, weeping, once the wine wore off...

Conditions:

Result:

Extra

The Fallen Mirror
At dawn, a thunderous crash jolted you awake. A servant, frantic, informed you that the great silver mirror of your ancestors had toppled in the hallway.

You pushed through the bewildered crowd and studied the mirror. It was intact—your own shadowy reflection peered back at you, scrutinizing the version of you outside the mirror. But it was heavy, its edges too delicate; the servants could not lift it back into place.

Then, inexplicably, something stirred within you. You stepped forward, gripped the frame, and—with a single heave—raised the massive mirror effortlessly.

Amid the servants’ cheers, you hung it where it belonged. Stepping back to admire your reflection, you suddenly realized: the you in the mirror was grinning slyly at you.

Only then did you notice the sting on your fingertip—a bead of blood welling from a tiny cut. You understood. This was likely a small jest from the warrior who dwelled in the mirror. In this way, [s1.name] had tasted a drop of your blood.

Result:

Action: