The carts moved slowly, wheels creaking over uneven stone. The mountain trail twisted upward in long, steady curves. Trees flanked both sides—tall, still, and indifferent.

In the first cart, the captives sat huddled together. The woman from earlier held Chottu close. He wasn't crying anymore. None of them were. Just quiet sobs, the kind that drained more than they relieved.

A few paces ahead, another cart rolled—larger, better built, with cushioned seats and a small lantern swinging gently at its corner. Their unit leader—the scarred man—sat inside, legs stretched, a wine bottle in one hand. He took a slow sip, eyes half-lidded.

A soldier riding beside him cleared his throat. "Sir… forgive me for asking, but… why give them three days? We could've taken the village tonight."

The leader didn't open his eyes. "If that's what you think, turn us around. Lead the charge. I'll follow you."

The subordinate went stiff. He looked at the road, then the trees, then the sky—as if hoping for an answer somewhere.

The leader chuckled, eyes still half-closed. "Exactly. You're not sure. Neither am I. No point gambling lives when we don't even know if the item's there."

He leaned back and took another sip. "In three days, the Chiefs will join us. Then we return, kill every last one of them, and search the village top to bottom. But if they hand it over quietly… we move on. No wasted time."

The soldier hesitated, then nodded once, lips pressed tight. "And what if they run?"

This time, the leader laughed. "That's why I lead this unit and you follow."

The subordinate grinned sheepishly.

"I left three men behind. Hidden. They'll gut anyone who tries to sneak out. Let them run. We'll see how far they get."

The soldier whistled, impressed. "Brilliant, sir. That's—honestly, that's—"

A sudden thud cut him off.

The cart jolted, veering sideways. The wine bottle slipped from his hand and rolled to the floor. Outside, the beast pulling the cart bucked, snorting.

The soldier yanked the reins, wrestling the cart back under control. The one behind them halted with a shout.

The leader stood, stepped out, and scanned the road.

The driver lay slumped over the front bar, unmoving.

Dead.

No blood. No scream. Just gone.

He frowned and muttered, "Ambush?"—but no panic in his tone.

The leader scanned the woods, jaw tight.

A flicker of movement caught his eye—up in the trees.

There. A figure stood on a thick branch, half-swallowed by shadow. They didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just stood there, watching.

The leader's frown deepened. Whoever killed a man from a moving unit, then didn't even bother hiding… wasn't someone to take lightly.

He raised his voice. "Who are you? You dare kill one of us and just stand there like—"

No response.

He clicked his tongue. "Surround him."

His men reacted instantly. A few spread out through the underbrush. Others stayed close, drawing blades with quiet precision. One aimed a crossbow up at the branch.

"Get down, or we'll put you down" one of them shouted.

Still no answer.

No shift. No sign of fear. Just the same silhouette, rigid as a carving.

Something about it made the leader uneasy.

Four raids before this. Four villages burned. Not a single casualty on their side. Clean, efficient, brutal.

But now—one scout missing. One man dead without a sound. Ten fighters left, including himself. That should've been more than enough. Yet…

His instincts whispered otherwise.

The air felt wrong.

He stepped back once. Then again. Didn't even realize it at first.

The figure didn't move.

Then it did.

A blur. A drop. Silent, fast, final.

By the time the leader looked up, it was already too late. He knew—this fight, he wouldn't walk away from.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Aaryan stood on the branch, face wrapped in a dark cloth, eyes fixed on the men below. One was dead already—killed with a silent Anvil Strike that drilled through the skull and shattered his mind before he could blink. His body still hung limply over the front bar of the cart, head tilted unnaturally, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Ten remained. One guarded the captives. The rest had surrounded him, steel drawn, eyes sharp but unaware just how far out of their depth they were.

They'd taken Chottu.

That had sealed their fate.

He hadn't planned to intervene. The village meant nothing to him—just another cluster of scared, powerless people. But Binay had shown kindness to him. And they'd dragged his son away like a trophy.

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They'd forced his hand. Now, they'd die for it.

Vedik waited, coiled somewhere in the brush, hidden beneath his illusion. Neither his true form nor his spirit-snake disguise could be risked here. Not yet. Not in front of potential eyes.

Down below, the leader took a few wary steps back. He thought it was caution. It was fear, growing inside him like rot.

That was enough.

Aaryan raised a hand. A silent signal.

Then he dropped.

Before his feet even touched the ground, three thin, finger-sized spears of splintered wood—hardened with Qi—shot from his hands. They didn't hum. They didn't glow. They didn't announce themselves.

They just moved. Swift, precise, merciless.

Three skulls burst like crushed melons, fragments of bone and brain spraying into the night.

He landed without a sound. Four more spears appeared and snapped forward. Four men dropped—eyes pierced, throats split, foreheads punctured straight through. They died mid-step, weapons still halfway raised.

To the right, silver-white fire erupted from empty air. Vedik moved like a ghost.

The last two soldiers barely had time to scream. Flames coiled up their legs and devoured them whole—skin, cloth, bone—leaving only blackened ash where they stood.

Silence fell.

Only the leader remained.

He'd turned to run, but his legs locked. A part of him still hoped for a miracle. The rest knew it was over.

He stared at the masked figure stepping through the corpses.

"P-please… spare me," he whispered, voice hollow. The smug confidence from earlier was gone. All that remained was a quivering shell of a man who didn't want to die.

Aaryan said nothing.

One final spear flew.

The leader's head split like ripe fruit, fragments scattering across the blood-soaked dirt.

Aaryan moved quickly. Searched the robes, the bodies that hadn't turned to ash. Tossed whatever he found into his spatial ring. Then he vanished again, slipping into the forest, like wind among trees.

Behind him, silence.

The captives didn't speak. Didn't move. They sat frozen in the cart, unable to process what had happened. Moments ago, they were prisoners staring down death. Now, their captors were corpses. Some part of them felt relief.

Another part felt pity.

No one deserved to die like that.

And yet… no one dared question it either.

Their saviour hadn't asked for thanks. Hadn't left a name. Hadn't even looked back.

Eventually, an older man—face pale, hands trembling—climbed into the front of the cart. He fumbled with the reins, steeling himself as best he could, and turned the cart around.

They began the slow journey back toward Brackenhill.

No one spoke.

They weren't sure what to say.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The sun hadn't risen yet, but red streaks had started bleeding across the horizon, cutting through the night like cracks in dark glass. The forest remained hushed—no birdsong, no rustling leaves—just the sound of Aaryan's quiet steps brushing past roots and stone.

He moved fast, slipping from shadow to shadow through the trees. The cart was just ahead, rolling along the narrow trail that wound toward Brackenhill. From a distance, he could see the silhouettes of the captives still hunched inside. Chottu sat between two others, motionless. Aaryan stayed out of sight, trailing the group from afar. His job wasn't done yet.

Only when the stone walls of the village came into view did he slow. He paused behind a thicket of ferns, gaze steady, and extended his soul sense outward in a wave.

Three flickers lit up in his mind's eye—dim, unstable signatures, hiding near the edge of the trail. Bandits. Low-tier cultivators. Probably left to keep an eye on villagers.

He didn't give them the chance to act. Three silent Anvil strikes, and three bodies dropped without a sound. The strikes drilled through skull and spirit both—no screams, no struggle.

A beat later, Vedik moved. A flash of silver-white fire burst from his mouth, curling over the last body. The heat burned away flesh and cloth in seconds, leaving only a smear of black ash.

Aaryan didn't pause to check their robes. He didn't look back at the captives, either. He simply waited until the cart rolled through the gates of Brackenhill, the villagers rushing forward with wide eyes and hurried questions. One of the younger captive sat clutching their knees, silent tears streaking down their dirt-smudged face. An old woman reached for them with shaking hands, too afraid to speak. Only then did he slip away into the forest.

He didn't stop until the trees thickened, and even the faint morning light couldn't pierce the canopy. A small clearing opened between tangled roots. Damp moss blanketed the ground. Here, at least, the world felt still.

His soul sense swept the area again. Nothing nearby.

Finally, he sat down and drew the contents of the bandits' robes from his ring. The haul was as unimpressive as expected—some spirit stones, basic herbs, a few common pills. A dull iron dagger. One pouch held dried meat that smelled worse than rotting bark.

Then came the map.

Rough parchment, water-stained, dotted with uneven circles and jagged lines. A few spots were marked with crude symbols—possibly villages. Possibly something else. Folded into the map was a letter, sealed with nothing, written in hurried script.

Aaryan scanned it. Then read it again.

Orders for Unit 3: Search all locations flagged for the item. Retrieve it intact. Damage will not be tolerated. Return immediately once secured

That was it. No name, no mention of what the item even was. Just the promise of punishment if it wasn't handled "with utmost care."

He turned the paper over. Blank.

He sat still for a moment, brows knit, thumb tapping lightly against the map's edge. The dots… could be a pattern. Could just be random.

He couldn't tell.

With a low exhale, he slipped the letter back into his ring and tossed the rest of the scraps in after it. He looked east, toward Brackenhill, but didn't move. If the villagers saw him appear right after the captives returned, someone might start asking questions he didn't want to answer.

He shook his head and pushed the thoughts aside.

A leap took him onto a thick branch. He crossed his legs, hands settling on his knees, and let his breath slow.

The Soul Anvil technique surged quietly through his mind, steady and grounding.

He'd return by evening. There was still time.

Time to grow stronger.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Evening was close when Aaryan opened his eyes.

His shirt clung to him like wet cloth, sweat trailing down his back as though he'd bathed in it. A sharp pulse throbbed behind his eyes—splitting, rhythmic. He sat still for a few seconds, steadying his breath. The Soul Anvil technique always left its mark. Without pills or herbs to ease the strain, every session crawled by like an ant dragging stone. But he never missed a day.

Pain was a small price.

He stood, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Vedik returned shortly after, wings tucked close, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. Whatever he'd hunted was already gone.

Together, they made their way to the village.

Brackenhill came into view just as the sky turned gold. Aaryan had expected some quiet relief, maybe a few tearful reunions. What he saw instead made him pause.

Bright cloths hung between houses. Music played somewhere in the distance. Children darted through the square, laughing, while adults shared drinks and food under glowing lanterns.

It wasn't relief. It was celebration.

Aaryan scanned the crowd. Binay spotted him and came over quickly, his expression softening with something like guilt.

"You're back."

"What's going on?" Aaryan asked, brows drawing together.

Binay let out a tired breath. "The bandit raid. They took Chottu… and the others. But they all came back. Safe."

Aaryan's jaw tightened. "And all this time? No one tried to help? You just prayed at the shrine and hoped for a miracle?"

"I tried," Binay said, voice low. "Tried to gather a few men, but they wouldn't listen. Said the gods would protect us. So they went up the ridge, lit a few lamps, and waited. And when the cart came back on its own..." He shook his head. "Now they think their prayers worked."

Aaryan said nothing.

"They didn't even talk about a rescue," Binay added. "Not once. Just sat there waiting for a sign. And now? No one will question their faith, ever."

Aaryan's thoughts drifted to the old man. To the child.

Beaten. Killed.

And here they were. Laughing. Celebrating.

He didn't blame Binay. The man had tried. But the others? They hadn't lifted a finger.

His gaze swept the square. Stalls. Lanterns. Sweet cakes. Laughter. Not a hint of guilt. No questions asked.

Just faith. Blind, unshakable faith.

He stood still for a long moment.

Aaryan didn't know if gods were real. Maybe they were. Maybe they weren't. But if one did exist, he was certain of this—

That god wouldn't save people who refused to save themselves.

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