"Kaelen," Han greeted the man blocking the path with a flat voice devoid of its usual cheer. The crossbow was still in his lap, but his hand hadn't moved to lift it. A deliberate stillness. "Can't say I was expecting to see your ugly mug again. Thought your kind kept to the city gutters."

Kaelen's smile didn't waver. "And miss this invigorating country air? Or the pleasure of your esteemed company?"

"Heh." Han laughed, a short, humourless sound. "You always were good with words. I suppose I should have known it was you from the beginning. Going to all this trouble, pretending to be a pack of common highwaymen just to waylay an old hauler like me? Your employers must be getting truly desperate if they're resorting to hiring your sort for field work."

Jiang let his hand drop to the hilt of his sword, eyes flickering between Han and the man standing casually on the road. Despite the nominally polite start to the conversation, he couldn't help but think it was going to end in violence.

Kaelen chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "You give yourself too little credit, Han. And my employers too much. They're not desperate; they're simply… insistent. Though I suppose I should assign credit where it's due – your little trick of waiting until winter to travel almost worked. I know I'm pretty sick of freezing my arse off. Hell, if I wasn't familiar with your stubborn refusal to take the predictable path, we might have missed you entirely. As it is, my associates are growing impatient." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the caravan, lingering for a fraction of a second on Jiang before returning to Han. "The package, Han. Hand it over. No fuss, no muss. You and your… companions… can even walk away. A gesture of goodwill for our long, if not entirely amicable, association."

Han actually snorted at that, a sound of pure derision. "Walk away? You expect me to believe that, Kaelen? After all the effort you've gone to to set up the plausible deniability of being bandits? I'm not that stupid, and my memory isn't so short that I've forgotten your particular brand of 'goodwill'."

The air thickened, the silence stretching taut. Jiang felt it then, a faint, almost imperceptible shift in the ambient Qi around them. It wasn't the distinct pressure of a cultivator's intent but something more diffuse – a prickling awareness, an anticipatory weight that reminded him of the frozen moment before losing an arrow at a deer. The world holding its breath.

As if cued by the thought, figures began to melt from the dense gloom of the surrounding trees. One moment, there was only snow-dusted pine and shadow; the next, a dozen men stood arrayed in a loose semicircle, blocking any chance of the caravan simply pushing through. They were well-equipped, Jiang noted with a grim tightening in his gut; dark, practical leathers, steel caps, and short bows or sturdy-looking axes held with a disturbing familiarity. These weren't desperate farmers. These were killers. The caravan guards, though experienced, were outnumbered, and most of the passengers would be little more than liabilities in a fight.

If it came to a fight… they would lose.

He needed to do something. But what could he really do? A cultivator he might be, but he had no flashy techniques, nothing to announce his power in a shower of fire or a crackle of lightning.

Jiang's heart began to pound, adrenaline creeping into his veins as his body prepared for a fight. Ironically, it calmed him. This wasn't the first time his life had been threatened.

He'd faced down enraged boars in the deep woods, their tusks sharp enough to gut him with a single careless move; he'd stared into the yellow eyes of cornered wolves, their growls rumbling with killing intent. The forest had taught him a harsh truth: predators, whether beast or man, reacted to perceived weakness. Flinch or show fear, and they would often press the attack, sensing an easy kill. But stand your ground, project an unyielding confidence – sometimes, just sometimes – they would hesitate, reassess.

Sometimes it was better to stay still, a rock in the stream of their aggression, letting their initial fury break against your calm. Other times, a sudden, explosive charge, making yourself seem larger, louder, and more dangerous than you were, could send them scattering. Jiang knew he didn't possess the physical presence for the latter - and without flashy techniques, he had nothing to bridge the gap.

That left the former. He had to act as if these men, these self-proclaimed killers, were so far beneath his notice that they didn't even register as a credible threat.

"Gods, what a waste of time," Jiang muttered, loud enough for Han—and perhaps Kaelen—to hear. He pushed himself up, deliberately unhurried, and swung down from the wagon seat. The impact of his boots on the packed snow felt oddly resonant in the sudden quiet. He drew his sword, the sound of steel whispering from the scabbard unnaturally loud, and started walking towards Kaelen. Not rushing. Just a steady, unconcerned pace, as if he were merely strolling through a marketplace.

Even as he walked, Jiang could hardly believe his own actions. But really, there was no choice at all. The only other alternative was to do nothing, but… he couldn't bring himself to consider it. The last time he had faced a group of bandits, he'd been forced to slink away and beg for help. This time… this time he had the strength to make a difference himself.

Kaelen looked almost amused at first before a hint of uncertainty flickered through his eyes as Jiang didn't slow, though it was quickly masked. He made a small, almost imperceptible gesture with his left hand. From the trees, an archer nocked, drew, and loosed in a single fluid motion.

But Jiang had known he was there. Had counted on it, even. His senses, enhanced by Qi, had been trained on the archers from the beginning. And if there was one thing being a cultivator had improved more than anything else, it was his senses.

He didn't break stride, didn't even glance towards the arrow. At the last possible moment, he shifted his weight, a slight, almost casual sway of his shoulders. The arrow hissed past his ear, close enough to stir his hair, and thudded into the snow-covered track behind him.

For a silent, stretched heartbeat, no one reacted.

Jiang mentally cursed and started moving faster. He'd been counting on the confusion lasting a little longer, but now that an arrow had been fired, the tension was about to boil over.

Kaelen's mouth opened slightly, confusion rapidly giving way to controlled alarm as he realised Jiang wasn't stopping.

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It was too late.

Jiang was close now, close enough to see the sudden fear warring with ingrained ruthlessness in Kaelen's eyes. He lunged, sword leading, aiming for the man's centre. Kaelen met the attack, his own blade a flicker of dark steel, and their swords clashed with a sharp, ringing report. It was immediately apparent that Kaelen was the more skilled swordsman; his parry was precise, his stance balanced, and his movements economical.

But Jiang had expected that. He still couldn't land a single blow on Wei Ren or Jin in their practice bouts – but this was no practice bout, and there were no rules.

He dropped his sword, letting Kaelen's counter twist his sword from his grip.

The move was so unexpected the man actually faltered, his follow-up attack stuttering. In that heartbeat of surprise, Jiang surged forward, driving a fist into the man's ribs. He poured Qi into the blow, not with finesse but with raw, desperate force, feeling his makeshift reinforcement technique flare erratically through his arm. There was a sickening crunch of bone. Kaelen let out a choked gasp and flew backward, tumbling through the air like a discarded doll before slamming into the hard-packed snow several paces away.

Jiang stared at his own hand, then at the unmoving figure of Kaelen, a sudden, dizzying sense of his own overt, superhuman strength washing over him. He froze, just for a second.

An arrow screamed past his cheek, slicing a thin line of fire across his skin, and the shock of it kicked him back into the moment. The clearing erupted. Crossbow bolts twanged from the wagons, and the caravan guards charged forward with shouts, engaging the bandits who were now torn between their leader's orders and self-preservation.

Jiang didn't hesitate. He stooped, snatched up his fallen sword, and darted for the treeline. The open road was a killing ground for archers. Here, amongst the dense pines and tangled undergrowth, he was the predator. His hunting experience, honed over years of silent pursuit, now augmented by a cultivator's speed and senses, made him a ghost.

He moved through the trees, a whisper of motion. The first bandit, an archer caught sighting down an arrow, never even heard him approach. Jiang's sword slid between his ribs from behind, quick and brutal. He felt a brief, visceral recoil at the sensation, the reality of taking a life hitting him with unexpected force. But there was no time for second thoughts, no room for hesitation.

He hardened his heart; the memory of his burning village, of his mother and sister's fear formed a cold stone in his gut. These were bandits. They didn't deserve his mercy, and he couldn't afford to give it regardless. He pulled the blade free and was moving again before the body hit the snow.

The forest, unlike the open training yards of the Sect or the muddy track of the road, felt like an extension of himself. Here, the uneven footing that might trip a less experienced fighter was an advantage, the dense trees and tangled undergrowth providing endless cover and unexpected angles of attack. He moved with a hunter's instinct, senses heightened by Qi, anticipating the bandits' movements, their panicked shouts, the way they bunched together for comfort only to create easier targets.

Another archer, this one trying to nock an arrow even as he retreated deeper into the woods, went down with a choked gurgle as Jiang's sword found his back. The man hadn't even seen him, too focused on the sounds of the fight back on the road. Jiang didn't pause, already tracking the next.

The next archer spotted him just before he struck. The man dropped his bow and yanked a long dagger from his belt, throwing his weight behind a desperate, lunging slash. It was a weapon better suited to the close confines of the forest, but that didn't make it a good matchup against a sword – especially one wielded by a cultivator.

Jiang didn't bother with technique or elegance, smashing the bandit's dagger aside with raw force before reversing the motion and driving his sword into the man's gut. The man staggered backwards, slicing wildly with his dagger as he fell. Jiang jerked backwards, but not quick enough to avoid the tip cutting across his chest, tracing a line of fire across his chest.

Jiang stumbled back a step, chest heaving, the cold air biting at the fresh wound. He looked down. Blood soaked through the front of his tunic, dark against the rough leather. It wasn't a deep wound, but it very easily could have been – a reminder that this was far from a training exercise.

Through the trees, Jiang spotted the last archer raising his bow and taking aim at him – and then, before he could fire, the man dropped like a stone as a crossbow bolt took him in the shoulder, spinning him around and slamming him into a tree. Jiang glanced back toward the wagons, spotting one of the drivers lowering his weapon with a grim nod before reloading.

No time to rest. The fight on the road had shifted. The remaining bandits had closed with the caravan, and the guards were dug in, weapons flashing in the snow and mud. Jiang moved, feet sure on the uneven ground, breath steady despite the ache in his side and the blood soaking through his shirt.

He burst from the treeline not as a swordsman or combatant, but as a disruption, a sudden, unexpected weight thrown onto a precarious balance. He wasn't aiming for elegant kills or a display of martial prowess; he didn't have the skill for that and he knew it – but then, right now, he didn't need it.

The bandits, having just witnessed their archers vanish into the trees and their leader felled by a single, brutal blow from this same youth, reacted with a mixture of fury and sudden, stark fear. They didn't know the extent of his abilities, only that he moved with unnatural speed and had already proven deadly. When he appeared at their flank, they hesitated, their attacks faltering, their eyes wide with the dread of the unknown.

It was all the opening the caravan guards needed. Hardened by years on the road, they were quick to exploit any advantage. A bandit turning to face Jiang's sudden rush would find a spear tip driving into his exposed back. Another, startled by Jiang's shout as he feinted an attack, would leave himself open to a crushing blow from a guard's mace.

The fight was brutal, short, and bloody. One by one, the bandits fell, overwhelmed by the caravan's renewed ferocity and the unsettling, disruptive presence of a cultivator. Soon, only a handful remained, their bravado shattered, their eyes darting about for an escape that wasn't there. The guards pressed their advantage, herding the last few into a shrinking circle.

It was almost over. Jiang could feel the tide turning, the desperation shifting from the defenders to the attackers. But even rats fought viciously when backed into a corner, and bandits were no exception.

One of them broke from the knot of retreating fighters with a snarl, blood running from a gash above his brow. He shoved past a dying comrade, boots slipping in the churned, frozen slush of the road and lunged towards one of the wagons, eyes locked on a young woman peering over the side to nervously watch the fight.

The bandit seized her by the hair, dragging her upright with a snarl, his blade flashing to her throat. She screamed, short and sharp, and then froze as steel kissed skin.

"Back! Stay the fuck back!" the bandit shouted. His voice cracked with panic. His eyes swept across the fighters, Jiang included, darting like a cornered animal. "Drop your weapons or she dies!"

The guards faltered, their momentum stalling mid-step. A spear wavered in the air, lowered a few inches. One of the drivers cursed under his breath.

There was no chance of the bandit getting away, of course – he was completely surrounded, and the last of his companions were already breathing their last. This was an act of pure, cornered desperation, which only made him more dangerous.

Jiang's gaze was fixed on the trembling blade at the young woman's throat. A line of blood, thin and stark against her pale skin, welled where the steel pressed too hard. Her eyes were wide, locked on some point beyond her captor, glazed with a terror that made Jiang's own stomach clench with a sickeningly familiar dread. Was this what his mother and sister had looked like when the Hollow Fangs had taken them?

Then, he saw it – or rather, felt it. The slightest shift in the bandit's Qi, a flicker of indecision as his gaze darted towards the nearest tethered ox, then back to the guards, his focus momentarily divided. It was a minuscule opening, a sliver of a chance almost too small to perceive.

Jiang's Qi surged with a raw, desperate instinct as he lunged.

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