Old Nan's eyes snapped up, sharp and hard as flint. The warmth that had lingered in her expression vanished. "No." Her voice was a flat, cutting blade. "That path is poison, boy. A blight on the world. The ones who walk it need to be stamped out, not studied."

Jiang blinked, taken aback. "I wasn't—"

"Spare me your reasoning," she snapped, leaning forward on her cane. The movement sent a faint tremor through the lantern's light, casting deep, jagged shadows across the cramped room. "I've lost track of how many I've seen that think the rules don't apply to them, that they're the exception. You think you're clever enough to take a sip of poison without swallowing. Unorthodox methods will rot you from the inside long before you even notice." Her gaze flicked to the restless street rats by the hearth, who were suddenly very still. "I won't be party to it."

Jiang held up his hands. "It's not for me," he said quickly. "I'm hunting a man. Gao Leng. Rogue cultivator. He's the one pulling the strings behind the bandit gangs. He's been using… something. Turning mortals into—" Jiang hesitated, searching for the right words. "—into berserkers. They don't run. They don't break. Zhang said his Qi suppression barely touched them."

That gave Old Nan pause. Her sharp eyes narrowed. "Describe it," she said quietly.

Jiang leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I was hunting the Dead River Gang. They had sixty men – Zhang burned half their camp to ash, and not a single one fled. Even mortally wounded, they kept fighting. One of them charged barehanded after losing his sword—he was already half-charred. Their Qi…" He grimaced. "It was… off. Zhang said it was poisoned and stagnant. Not real cultivation. Just enough to let them resist."

Old Nan's fingers tightened around the head of her cane, the knuckles whitening. For a long moment she said nothing, then let out a low, derisive breath. "That's proper unorthodox work, all right. Crude, reckless. A fool forcing a door open that should never even be touched." She shook her head. "Men like Gao Leng always think they're different. That they can warp the Heavens' order for a shortcut to power and pay no price. But the price always comes due."

She settled back slightly, her tone losing some of its edge. "Well then. That's different – you want to know how to fight these kinds of cultivators, not become one."

Jiang shrugged. "Actually, I'm more interested in learning how to find those kinds of cultivators – I figure the sects can do the fighting."

Old Nan snorted. "Fair enough. Well then, good news; chances are you won't have to hunt him down – he'll be hunting you down. You've disrupted his harvest. Humiliated him. He won't ignore that. He'll come for you and that Azure pup, and he'll think himself clever for doing it." Her mouth curled into a humourless smile. "It'll be his undoing."

Jiang frowned. "That's good news?"

Sure, it meant less work for him, but at the same time, he wasn't nearly as confident in his fighting ability after having his ass handed to him by Zhang.

"It is." Old Nan tapped her cane against the floor, the sound sharp and final. "Unorthodox cultivators are their own worst enemy. They can't help but prove themselves. Gao Leng's pride will drag him straight to your doorstep, even if it's the stupidest thing he could do. You can use that against him, lure him into a trap. Make those sanctimonious sects do something useful for once."

Old Nan's mouth twisted into a humourless smile before fading. "Still… it's odd he's managed to stay hidden this long. Gao Leng's not subtle – calling himself the Hollow Fang, ruling over bandit groups? That's ego. The rare ones who can keep their heads down, suppress their pride, and play the long game – those are the dangerous ones. He isn't one of them." She tapped her cane thoughtfully against the floorboards. "Which means either he's luckier than most… or someone else is pulling strings."

Jiang frowned, a prickle of unease running down his spine. "Someone else?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Old Nan said grimly. "Unfortunately, generally speaking, the louder an unorthodox cultivator is, the less dangerous they are. Stay alert. One downside of living this far out in the provinces is that the cracks get wider. The great sects and their armies of bureaucrats aren't watching as closely. Unorthodox cultivators like to crawl out here and play their games."

Jiang blinked, momentarily thrown. "The provinces? You make it sound like we're the backwater of the Empire."

Old Nan gave him a look that was equal parts pity and amusement. "Boy, you thought Qinghe was the heart of the world? The Azure Sky Sect barely ranks among even the minor powers; that's why they stick to this tiny province, it's the only place they have any actual relevance. We're a snow-covered corner of the world most real nobles couldn't find with a map and a servant to read it for them. The Empire stretches farther than your imagination – and most of it couldn't care less what happens here."

A corner of her mouth twisted bitterly. "That's why I came here after the Purge. It's not that the Great Sects of the Empire couldn't think to look here – it's that they just don't care what anyone could get up to this far from the centre of the world."

Jiang leaned back in his chair, letting that sink in. He'd always known, in a vague way, that there was more out there. But hearing it laid out so plainly made him feel suddenly… small.

He shook the thought off. "So why, then, are you so against unorthodox cultivation when the Patrons are technically unorthodox too?"

Old Nan's eyes snapped back to him, offended. "Don't lump us in with that filth."

"But you're the one who said the Pact is unorthodox," he pressed, tone more curious than accusatory.

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She snorted, a sharp, derisive sound. "Bah. I suppose I shouldn't expect you to know any better. Yes, by the standards of the sects today, the Pact is 'unorthodox'. But really, that's just a word the big sects cooked up to make themselves feel righteous while wiping out their competition. Slap the label 'unorthodox' on someone and you don't need a trial or proof – just a mob of disciples who don't bother asking questions. In the old days, before they prettied it up, they called what Gao Leng is doing 'demonic cultivation.' Much more honest."

Jiang raised a brow. "So… what, they did it for control?"

"Of course they did." Old Nan's cane thumped once, the sound as sharp as her tone. "How you do anything is how you do everything. Orthodox cultivators weave order into their Qi; their techniques depend on structure and precision. That mindset bleeds into everything they touch. Rules for breathing, rules for bowing, rules for when to scratch your nose." She gestured dismissively. "It's why their world is a maze of titles and obligations. They can't stand the idea of someone powerful who doesn't fit their neat little boxes."

It was said a little derisively, but it did match what Jiang had disliked so much about the Azure Sky Sect. It wouldn't have been so bad if the rules were about important things, but who really cared what angle you bowed at?

"And Pact-bearers don't like to follow rules," he said.

"I wouldn't generalise quite that much, but essentially… yes. Nature doesn't care about politics," Old Nan confirmed. "The Patrons don't either. Pact cultivators don't beg for scraps or chase approval. We roam, we choose, we endure. And that freedom terrifies the ones who build cages for themselves and call them thrones."

Jiang nodded slowly, the words settling somewhere deep. For a moment, the room was silent but for the crackle of the fire and the muffled wind outside. Then one of the street rats coughed nervously, breaking the tension.

Old Nan gave a final, dismissive sniff. "Now. Unless you're planning to invite a demonic cultivator to dinner, stop asking stupid questions."

Jiang held up his hands in mock surrender. Honestly, his brain felt full to bursting with all the new information anyway. He let a beat of silence pass, then cleared his throat. "Alright, change of topic. Where's Lin these days?"

Old Nan arched a thin, wiry brow. "What am I, her keeper? I don't keep track of every brat that scurries through my door."

Jiang nodded slowly, trying to hide the small pang that gave him. It wasn't surprising – he'd paid her enough silver that she could rent a room for months if she was smart. And really, that had been the point; if nothing else, his recent encounters out in the wilderness had fully hammered home the reality of the situation. A mortal girl didn't belong anywhere near the kind of messes he kept stumbling into.

But some small, stubborn part of him had hoped she'd be here anyway.

Something twisted in the air, faint enough that he barely registered it. Jiang frowned in confusion, focusing on the sensation. He hadn't realised it, but he'd unconsciously been pushing his Qi into the shadows by his feet, which had crept outwards from him.

Well, that explained why the street rats were still huddled by the wall – his shadow had ended up stretched across the space between them and the door. Whoops.

Before he could figure out what it was that he'd sensed, Old Nan turned towards the rats with predatory precision, her cane going still. "Alright then," she barked, voice sharp enough that they flinched as a group. "Which one of you is leaking guilt all over my floor?"

One of the boys flinched, shrinking in on himself, his eyes darting towards the door. He was small, even for a street rat, his face smudged with dirt that looked days old. Jiang looked him over with faint curiosity before his eyes landed on the pouch at the boy's belt.

He was on his feet before he'd made a conscious decision to move.

His hand shot out and snatched the pouch from the boy's belt, the motion so fast the kid barely had time to yelp in surprise. He'd seen that pouch before, but it wasn't on this kid's hip. He loosened the tie, looking down at what he already knew he would find. It was full of silver.

The boy was trembling now, his face pale with terror. "I-I didn't steal it," he stammered, his eyes wide.

"Then where did you get it?" Jiang's voice was a low, cold thing that made the other children press themselves further against the wall.

The boy broke. The words came out in a panicked, breathless rush. "The Iron Dogs… they were askin' around… who killed their leader… Someone must've said her name… I saw 'em grab her… yesterday… She fought, dropped this… I just picked it up, I swear!"

The room went cold. The shadows didn't just writhe; they exploded. They lashed out from the corners, crawling up the walls like grasping claws, choking the firelight until the room was plunged into a deep, oppressive gloom. It was his village all over again. A friend taken. Another person snatched away while he was somewhere else, too slow, too late. The same helplessness, the same white-hot rage that left no room for thought, only for action.

He turned, his hand already on the door, his only thought to find the Iron Dogs' den and tear it apart, brick by bloody brick.

A sharp crack echoed in the room as Old Nan's cane slammed down on the floorboards in front of him, blocking his path. "And what will you do?" she rasped, her voice a frail thing against the storm of his fury. "Storm their den alone? Get yourself killed?" She looked up at him, her eyes holding a strange, sharp clarity. "Is one mortal girl worth throwing your life away? Worth jeopardising your own quest?"

Jiang turned to her, eyes like chips of obsidian, but he didn't bother answering. Disgust twisted in his gut – disgust at her words, at the boy, at himself for even momentarily considering her question. He shoved the pouch into his belt, stalked to the door, and yanked it open so hard the hinges squealed.

The cold night swallowed him.

— — —

Old Nan sat in the sudden silence, listening to the wind claw at the shutters. She let her breath out slowly, feeling the ache deep in her chest where her shattered core pulsed like a festering wound. The pain was constant now – a dull, gnawing fire threading through every meridian. She'd been at the Nascent Soul Realm at her peak, her Qi a blazing star that had lit up battlefields. Millennia of life had stretched before her like a golden road.

Now, she was burning what remained of that road just to stand upright. A decade, perhaps less at the rate she was going, before the last of her life-force guttered out.

She glanced at the terrified boy clutching the wall and softened her expression just enough to keep him from bolting. Poor thing. Mortals weren't built for this world's games. Neither, truth be told, were most cultivators.

She shifted, wincing as another lance of agony cut through her ribs. She hadn't asked if Lin was worth it because she believed the answer was no. She'd asked because the right answer mattered. Too many sect disciples learned to weigh the world in cold, ordered lines. To measure worth in rules and ranks.

But a Pact-bearer couldn't afford to think like that. The Patrons didn't bless hollow shells or self-righteous accountants of morality. They chose those who felt, who raged, who loved. Who burned for something.

A faint, tired smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Good. The Raven hadn't chosen poorly. Certainly, the Raven would know more than she did about what criteria Jiang met, but it was important to remember that the Patrons were not human and did not necessarily value human things. Either way, connections like that – ugly, inconvenient, irrational – would keep the boy human even as the power tried to strip that humanity away.

Good, she thought, a grim satisfaction cutting through the pain. He will need that fire for the road ahead. Let it ignite a blaze that turns those miserable, traitorous bastards to ash.

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