The sky was still dark, though a faint silver rim touched the horizon—morning waiting just beyond the hills. A low breeze stirred the trees, rustling leaves like whispers. Somewhere, a bird gave a single call, then fell silent again.

The men brought the bodies down with steady hands. Ropes were cut, limbs lowered. No one spoke—not even the children.

Mothers kept their little ones close. Farmers and hunters shifted uneasily. Even the birds had fallen silent.

Old Bheema stepped forward, flanked by two other elders. He moved slowly, both out of age and the weight of uncertainty. His knees cracked as he knelt beside the larger of the two corpses—the one with the gaping void where an eye should've been. The body was stiff, but not bloated. No smell. As if death itself had come gently.

He hesitated, then reached with wrinkled fingers and pulled aside the upper robe.

What he saw made him inhale sharply.

Without a word, he turned to the second body. The cloth there came away more easily. Another gasp—this time from those behind him. A few villagers stepped forward despite themselves.

Across the chests of both men were markings. Thin, looping lines carved into the flesh— No gouges. No jagged wounds, but etched smoothly, like calligraphy. The message stretched across both bodies—half carved into each chest, completing a whole only when read together.

Binay crouched low, squinting at the words. His voice was hoarse and low:

"The shrine shall sleep as it once did My watch I keep, though doors be hid Break not the pact, nor lift the lid."

The murmurs came like ripples. Some villagers leaned closer. Others pulled back. A few just stared, lips parted, eyes wide.

It wasn't just the message—it was how it was written. The lines were too perfect, too deliberate. There were no signs of struggle, no bleeding. Just faint ridges, smooth as brushwork, elegant as ink on silk.

Someone whispered near the front, barely audible but sharp in the stillness:

"The god… He speaks. He commands the shrine be closed. Like every year."

It passed through the crowd like fire through dry grass.

No one argued. Not this time.

The fear that had gripped them only moments ago bent its knee to something heavier. Something deeper. Reverence. Where once the corpses had been seen as warnings—or worse, punishments—they now looked like vessels. Messages, not mutilations. The work of divine will, not mortal hands.

Some bowed. Others wept. A few simply stood and stared, overwhelmed.

An elder raised his hands.

"We'll prepare again! First we celebrate, and then—tonight—we seal the shrine once more!"

A cheer went up, not wild but full of breathless relief. They had been given a sign. Clearer than ever before.

At the edge of the crowd, Aaryan stood with arms folded loosely across his chest. His eyes moved slowly over the villagers—their changing faces, their whispered prayers, their eager movements to begin.

His mouth twitched, the smile too stubborn to stay hidden.

Exactly as planned.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Binay walked beside him in silence, robes catching the early light. At the well, they parted—Binay heading for the shrine and the duties waiting there. Aaryan watched him go, then slipped into the house and settled near the window.

Outside, the village was already stirring. Banners were being pulled from old trunks. A group of women tied flower garlands. Children darted between stalls half-built, chasing dogs and laughing like it was festival season.

Aaryan leaned against the wall, arms resting on his knees. He watched a potter offer spare clay to a weaver's son, then saw the village drunk help carry wooden planks without being asked. Faith did strange things to people. But at least, when it came to the shrine, it brought them together.

Rich or poor, everyone played a part. No one was left out.

Would they stand together like this if bandits came? If someone tried to burn their shrine or plunder their homes—would they still move like one body, one will?

For their homes... maybe not.

But he was sure of his plan.

The message had taken shape in his mind without warning, a wild thought tossed out in passing. But the more he'd looked at the village, the more it had made sense. Faith was their language—so he spoke it.

The carving hadn't been hard. A bit of control, the right flow of qi, and the strokes melted into flesh like ink into parchment. No blade could've left such clean work. To these villagers, it wasn't human handiwork. It couldn't be. It was too… graceful.

And no one here would even think to doubt. Why would they?

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A qi condensation expert had no reason to lie. If he wanted the village dead, he wouldn't need tricks or riddles. He'd just kill. So if such a person left behind a message, who would dare call it fake?

He sat a while longer, watching the village become a fair again. Bright cloth hung between trees. Smoke rose from early fires. Laughter echoed off rooftops.

They were doing what they believed mattered.

Aaryan got up, dusted off his palms, rolled his shoulders once and stepped outside. No one looked his way. Everyone was too busy with their own work.

He had no stalls to build. No shrine to clean. No songs to sing.

He had work of his own.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The sun was still climbing when trouble began to move.

A caravan snaked its way through a narrow trail flanked by thick forest. Around thirty men walked in formation, all clad in matching-coloured robes. Their movements were casual but sharp—too relaxed for anyone but killers. Some chewed strips of dried meat. Others twirled blades between fingers out of habit. These weren't guards. These were men who licked blood from their blades and didn't bother to wipe after.

At the head rolled a polished, blackwood cart with golden joints and beast-hide curtains. A thing of comfort and power. Inside lounged two men, both in finer robes, both sipping wine from bone-handled goblets.

Varen, the older of the two, had ash-grey eyes and a skull-shaped ring wrapped around his index finger. Even his smiles had an edge, like a knife resting on a silk napkin. Beside him sat his younger brother, Karek—more cheerful, less cruel on the surface, though no less dangerous. They shared the same long jaw and straight nose, a bloodline easy to trace.

They drank and ate as the forest passed by, not speaking much until a rider came from the other direction.

The caravan didn't stop, just slowed. A single kick spurred his horse forward—he leapt off mid-gallop, landing on the cart's front step. He ducked past the curtain and dropped to one knee, head bowed so low it nearly touched the floor.

"Reporting to the chiefs," the man said quickly, "Unit Three hasn't been seen. I sent scouts to Green Moss Village, but word from my contact is—they never arrived."

Varen froze mid-chew. He didn't speak. His boot simply lashed out.

The messenger flew sideways in the cramped space, colliding with the inner wall. Blood touched his lips, but he made no sound. He coughed, straightened, and dropped back into a deep bow, trembling.

Karek didn't even glance over. He was busy pulling meat from his skewer with his teeth, washing it down with a long sip of wine.

Varen clicked his tongue. "Find out which groups are in this region. Doesn't matter who. Invite them. We'll call a meeting."

Then, his voice dropped.

"If I don't get something worth hearing this time, cut your own throat. Otherwise, I'll keep you alive until you beg to become bones."

The messenger didn't dare look up. "Understood." He leapt from the cart mid-motion, hitting the ground hard. He scrambled to his feet and ran, blood trailing behind as the caravan rolled on without slowing.

Karek raised an eyebrow, still chewing. "You planning to play nice now? Since when did you start sharing?"

Varen let out a dry laugh. "Don't act like you weren't thinking the same. Why take the risk when we can get someone else to test the waters?"

Their chalices clinked. The cart creaked forward. And behind them, the trees whispered of blood.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The clearing ahead came into view just as the trail dipped beneath a ridge. The caravan didn't stop. Instead, it slowed and veered aside, forming a loose perimeter around the trees like a dance they'd done a hundred times before. At the centre, beneath the shade of two crooked pines, a table had been set—planks balanced over crates, rough but functional.

Four men sat around it. The meeting was already in motion.

The messenger had done his job in less than two hours. Impressive.

Varen lounged with casual arrogance, one boot resting atop a barrel. Karek sat straighter, swirling wine in a chipped goblet as if the drink itself held more interest than the conversation. Across from them sat the other two.

One wore white robes so worn they might've once belonged to a priest—or a corpse. His skin clung to bone, and his cheeks had caved in long ago. From a distance, he might've been mistaken for a skeleton hunched in prayer. His name was Drenval, and he led the Bone Shade Pact—a small group, as ruthless as their name.

Beside him sat a mass of flesh. Ghoran, bare-chested and bloated with muscle and fat alike, his gut spilling over his belt, breathed heavily even while seated. The wooden chair beneath him creaked dangerously with each movement. Leader of the Flamejaw gang, Ghoran was a known brute who could crush a skull with one hand—or simply sit on a man and wait.

It was Drenval who spoke first. His voice was little more than a whisper, brittle and slow. "What does the Iron Wolf Gang want, calling us out like this?"

Varen chuckled, tilting the cup so the wine swirled lazily. "Did we disturb your nap, old man? Should've bought you a better coffin if you wanted peace."

Drenval's hands twitched on the table. His lips curled into something between a sneer and a curse. The temperature around him felt like it dipped.

But before he could speak again, Ghoran gave a soft, rumbling laugh.

"Brother Varen. Brother Karek," he said, his words oiled with amusement. "We all know we're here for the same thing. If you've called us, I assume it's not just to trade insults, right?"

Karek inclined his head. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're right, Brother Ghoran. We're all chasing the same trail. I only wanted to make sure none of us trips on something unexpected."

Drenval's eyes narrowed to slits. "Speak plainly. What is this... unexpected thing?"

Karek's voice remained calm, even pleasant. "We sent one of our main units ahead. Fifteen men. Most of them seventh or eighth stage Body Tempering. Their leader was tenth stage."

The air stilled.

Ghoran reached for a cloth and wiped his palms, frowning. Drenval, unnervingly, didn't blink.

"No word from them," Karek said after a beat. "Not a message. Not a corpse. Nothing."

Drenval gave a low scoff. "Hmph. Your men probably stumbled into a beast tide and got torn apart. This land isn't some back-alley tavern—it doesn't care about your rankings."

Karek didn't flinch. "Fifteen trained men, Drenval. Not farmers. You're telling me not a single one could escape? Not even a tenth-stage expert?"

Ghoran dragged a calloused hand across his chin, frowning. "You're saying someone took out all of them? Without a trace? That doesn't sound real."

Varen leaned forward. "Then why the hell do you think we're here? You think we came out here just to hand out drinks?"

Karek put a hand on Varen's arm, calming. "Whether you believe us or not is your call," Karek said, tone steady. "We've shared what we know."

He leaned forward, letting his fingers drum once against the table—slow, deliberate.

"Truth is, we've got more men than both of you combined. Losing fifteen stings, sure—but it's not fatal."

He let his gaze linger on each of them.

"For you two, though? That many men gone... you'd be limping back home with nothing. So here it is—if you believe us, we join hands. Whatever did this, we handle it together. And once we've got the prize, we split it. Equal shares."

Drenval didn't move. His face remained a pale mask, unreadable. Ghoran scratched his belly, eyes thoughtful for once. Neither gave an answer.

Varen and Karek didn't press. They simply sipped their wine, the fire in their eyes flickering behind veils of politeness.

Above them, the trees stirred. Somewhere in the woods, a breeze twisted through the underbrush, and the sun slipped behind the clouds.

Whatever silence the Bone Shade Pact and Flamejaw gang needed, they were granted.

But the look both brothers shared said enough—this wasn't a warning. It was bait.

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