NOVEL NEXT The Markseekers
“Well, this certainly looks unique to say the least,” Ling Xuan muttered in bewilderment as he approached the Guild of The Markseekers. The sight before him was far from what he had anticipated a guild would look like. Instead of a grand, imposing structure typical of many guilds, the Markseekers' headquarters had a design that reflected a more tribalistic and rugged aesthetic.
The building was constructed from a mix of natural materials, with wooden beams, woven bamboo, and thatched roofs creating a structure that seemed to grow organically from the surrounding landscape.
As Ling Xuan entered the Guild of The Markseekers, he was greeted by a scene that immediately captured his attention. The interior of the main hall was bustling with activity. Several hooded figures, clad in the guild’s distinctive attire—comprising a blend of traditional tribal elements and modern practical gear—were engaged in animated conversations. Their voices created a low murmur that filled the space with a sense of purpose and camaraderie.
Ling Xuan made his way to the front desk, a sturdy counter made from polished mahogany that stood prominently in the centre of the hall. Behind the desk sat a female receptionist, her presence commanding and efficient. She looked up from her work as Ling Xuan approached.
“What is your reason for visiting?” she asked, her tone direct yet not unkind.
Ling Xuan met her gaze calmly. “I’m here to become a Markseeker,” he replied.
The receptionist did not respond immediately. Instead, she extended her hand towards him, palm up. “2 Silver or its equivalent,” she stated succinctly.
Ling Xuan nodded, understanding the fee. He reached into his pouch and retrieved two silver coins, placing them gently in her outstretched hand.
The woman accepted the coins with a practised motion, her fingers deftly sliding them into a small, leather pouch secured at her belt. Without further delay, she handed Ling Xuan a form and an ink brush. The form was made of coarse parchment, its edges slightly worn from use but still functional. The ink brush was of fine quality, with a soft bristle tip that promised precise writing.
“Fill this out,” the receptionist instructed, “and if you don’t know how to write, just tell me the information, and I’ll complete it for you.”
Ling Xuan took the form and began reading it. Surprisingly, there wasn’t much to it—only spaces for his name, age, and origin. He filled it out within seconds, his brush strokes precise and fluid:
Name: Ling We'i
Age: 24
Origin: Mainland
Ling We’i was the name that Ling Xuan was given by the Beggars Sect to serve as his false identity for his time on Shambala, it was actually Liang Wei but Ling Xuan chose to write it in The Shambala Dialect to make the locals a bit more friendly.
“Well, that’s done,” Ling Xuan said as he handed the form back to the receptionist. She took it, quickly scanning the information before nodding in approval. With a practised motion, she stamped the form with a seal bearing the guild’s emblem—a fierce-looking beast entwined with intricate tribal patterns.
Next, the receptionist reached into a drawer and pulled out a small, rectangular piece of wood, just the right size to fit comfortably in Ling Xuan’s hand. The wood was smooth and polished, its surface bearing the same intricate carvings that decorated the guild hall. She wrote something on it with a swift, elegant script before handing it to Ling Xuan.
“This is your guild token,” she explained. “It identifies you as a member of The Guild of The Markseekers and grants you access to our resources and facilities. Keep it with you at all times.”
Ling Xuan examined the token. It was light but sturdy, with his name and a unique identifier etched into the surface. The intricate carvings on the back included symbols representing the guild’s storied past and its oath to the Empire.
“The board detailing the Marks can be found to your right,” the receptionist continued, pointing towards a large wooden board mounted on the wall nearby. “If you need help with any additional information or have any questions, you can ask here.”
Ling Xuan followed her gesture and saw the board, covered with various notices and postings. Each Mark was detailed with a description of the task, the reward, and any special requirements. Some were simple, like delivering goods or gathering specific herbs, while others were more complex, involving tracking down some individuals or protecting valuable caravans.
“Let’s see.” Ling Xuan thought for a moment as he observed the board and suddenly noticed something that intrigued him.
Mkhas Pa'i Sregs Gtongs Kha Btags [Contract for assassination of Adept]
The current Ling Xuan was an individual who had successfully forged 38 meridians in total, his months-long journey to Shambhala accounting for three of them. He stood before the notice board, his eyes scanning the various postings until they settled on one that caught his interest. The notice was quite simple-an assassination of an adept. To Ling Xuan who had defeated experts in his full power,an adept was like an ant yet he didn’t care as the reward was quite good enough for Ling Xuan to be interested.
“This should be a good one for my first job,” Ling Xuan thought to himself. He carefully tore the notice from the board and walked to the front desk where the receptionist sat.
“I’ll accept this job,” he declared, placing the notice in front of her.
The receptionist took the notice and added it to a small pile of similar documents on her desk. She then retrieved a ledger and made a note of the job acceptance.
“Alright, the time limit for the job is four hours,” she informed him, her tone professional and clipped. “Mark's address is here.” She handed Ling Xuan a few pieces of parchment, each one meticulously detailed with maps and instructions.
Ling Xuan studied the parchments, noting the location and key details about the target. He gave a curt nod. “Alright,”
With that, Ling Xuan turned and walked away, his mind already strategizing the best way of taking up the most time as to not appear suspicious
As he made his way towards his destination, the receptionist glanced up, only to be approached by a hooded figure. His presence was like a shadow creeping across her desk.
“How long do you think that junior will last?” the man asked, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that seemed to seep through the very air.
The receptionist sighed, clearly annoyed, and continued her work with practised efficiency. “I don’t know, and stop trying to be so mysterious, Lobsang.”
Lobsang Drakpa chuckled softly, his hood obscuring most of his face but not the gleam in his eyes. “Heh, no need to be all annoyed.”
“But seriously, I want to know. How long?” Lobsang’s persistence was like a dog with a bone.
The receptionist rolled her eyes and reluctantly pulled out a worn parchment from beneath her desk. “He’s taken up the assassination of Tenzin.”
Lobsang’s eyes narrowed beneath his hood. “Oh, you mean the Adept? That’s quite the target.”
The receptionist nodded curtly. “Yup. Now, if you don’t mind, I have actual work to do.”
With a flick of her hand, she dismissed him, her attention already returning to the stack of papers and the steady flow of visitors.