Dawn broke not in silence, but with the low growl of the forest holding its breath.
Pale gray mist clung to the undergrowth like a second skin, and the trees rose high above in a silent council, their branches stark against the pale sky. The air was colder now, the sun's light thin and uncertain as it spilled through the canopy. A squirrel darted across a mossy log and vanished. Somewhere far off, a crow cried—a harsh, solitary sound that echoed down the mountain slopes like a warning.
Yin Shuang opened her eyes to the feeling of frost along her eyelashes.
She sat up slowly, muscles sore from sleeping upright. Across the low firepit, the embers were now no more than a gentle glow. She glanced to her left—Kai Feng was already awake, sharpening his blade with long, methodical strokes. The metal rasped softly against the whetstone, a sound almost meditative in the quiet morning.
To her right, Han Long stood at the edge of the clearing, facing the woods, his breath visible in the cold air. He had not spoken since waking. His posture was stiff, hands clenched at his sides, his gaze fixed in the distance as if willing the forest to give back what it had taken.
No one had eaten. No one had spoken yet. The silence wasn't awkward now—it was reverent, heavy, the kind of silence one keeps before a storm breaks.
Yin rose, brushed her hair back, and approached Kai. "How far?"
Kai didn't look up from his blade. "Two hours at most. Shen's trail leads north along a ravine. The ground is soft there—he couldn't mask his tracks."
"He's not even trying to hide," Han muttered suddenly from the trees. "He wants us to find him."
Kai looked up. "Yes. I think he's prepared for it. He's not running anymore."
Yin knelt beside the fire, her expression unreadable. "Then let's not keep him waiting."
They packed their things quickly. No words were exchanged as they doused the fire. Each moved with the precision of seasoned cultivators—every gesture practiced, efficient. They understood what was coming. Words weren't necessary now.
The trail north narrowed quickly, winding through rocks slick with moss and clusters of black pines. The mist never lifted—it only grew heavier as they ascended, casting the trees in ghostly outlines. Birdsong was absent. Even the insects had gone quiet.
As they moved, Han walked ahead, scouting with a kind of hunger in his stride. Yin followed closely behind, eyes scanning every branch, every shadow. Kai took the rear, his senses expanded, watching for danger.
It was Han who first stopped, his hand lifting sharply in warning.
They froze.
He gestured downward.
A piece of torn green fabric hung from a thorned bush, ripped and stained. Yin's heart clenched—she recognized the cloth. It was from Meng Yao's robe.
Han didn't say a word. He took it, closed his eyes briefly, then pressed it to his chest.
"She came through here recently," Kai said quietly, stepping beside him. "No more than a few hours ago."
"And she was fighting," Yin added, pointing to faint scrape marks in the dirt, where boot heels had dragged.
Kai nodded. "He's close."
Then came the howl.
Low. Resonant. Not from an animal—but from Qi.
They turned together, instinct flaring. From far ahead, carried by the wind, came the unmistakable resonance of Shen Zhenhai's power. It was a sound like bones grinding against metal, layered with rage and grief.
"He's summoning us," Han said darkly. "Like prey."
"He'll regret it," Yin said, and drew the Peerless Sword in one slow motion. The blade sang—soft and cold, like winter steel.
The three moved as one, urgency flooding their limbs. They ran through the woods with blinding speed, their Qi flaring subtly to enhance their motion—just enough to remain agile, quiet, controlled.
It didn't take long before the forest broke open.
They emerged onto a high plateau, ringed with dead trees and jagged stones. The earth here had been burned, scarred, as if firestorms had once danced upon its surface. The scent of ash still lingered faintly. Mist clung to the ground like mourning shrouds.
At the far end of the plateau stood Shen Zhenhai.
Or rather, what remained of him.
His figure was gaunt, hunched. His once-grand robes were nearly in tatters. His hair hung in uneven strands, wild and matted. But his eyes burned bright with madness—and power. The Qi around him pulsed violently, dark and volatile, radiating waves of corruption.
At his feet knelt Meng Yao, her hands bound by iron-threaded rope glowing with suppressing runes. Her face was bruised, but her gaze was defiant.
She saw Han first, and her eyes widened with relief. "Han!" she cried.
Shen Zhenhai clucked his tongue. "Ah-ah. Speak only when spoken to, my dear disciple."
Han's face darkened. The sight of her wounded, bound—it broke something in him. His hands trembled at his sides, nails digging into his palms.
"Let her go," he growled.
Shen grinned, his teeth yellowed. "Oh, I will. Once I've crushed the three of you beneath my heel."
Kai stepped forward. "Shen Zhenhai. You've disgraced yourself enough. Let the girl go and turn yourself in. You'll face judgment."
"Judgment?" Shen barked out a bitter laugh. "I am judgment, boy! I was the future of the cultivation world until she"—he jabbed a finger toward Yin—"poisoned it with sentiment and truth!"
Yin raised her sword. "You poisoned it yourself, Shen. You caused my mother's death! And now you're too much of a coward to face what you've done."
Shen's smile vanished.
"Coward?"
The air distorted.
His Qi surged violently, flaring around him in a great black wave. Thunder cracked overhead, though no clouds stirred. The ground trembled beneath his feet. A jagged, crown-like aura formed above his head—a twisted manifestation of his ego, his delusions.
"You want to see power?" he screamed. "Then come and claim your death!"