Far from the quiet grasslands, Red Billow's command camp burned with torches and noise.
Peng Cheng stood before the long war table, his armor half-fastened, eyes sharp with exhaustion. Maps of the forest and surrounding plains stretched before him, marked with charcoal lines and small red stones. Each one meant a scouting unit — each one still empty of results.
"Still nothing?" His voice cut through the murmurs.
A soldier saluted, bowing low. "We searched the southern ridge, Commander. No signs of Lin Ziao or his trail,the winds there wipe tracks too fast."
Peng Cheng's jaw tightened. "Then search again."
"Sir, the men are—"
"Search again!" he snapped.
Silence fell and the soldier nodded and left.
For a moment, Peng Cheng just stood there, staring at the map. The name Lin Ziao seemed to echo in his head, over and over, louder than the drums outside. He didn't hate the boy — not truly. But he couldn't forget what he saw: the flash of power, and the blood that followed.
"Reinforce the western flank," he said to his aide. "If he's alive, he'll head beyond the forest. The grasslands are the next safest place. We'll find him."
He turned toward the tent's opening, the wind howling through the night.
THE GRASSLANDS...
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The grasslands, however, knew no such unrest.
Lin Ziao sat cross-legged near the river, the evening wind playing with his hair. The air was warm but restless, carrying a charge he couldn't explain. The fox, Ruo, lay beside him, ears twitching now and then as if it sensed something unusual too.
He had been feeling strange for days — powerful energy shifting inside him, coiling and pulsing like water beneath the skin. It wasn't painful, but it was… weird.
He'd been training quietly since the incident — small movements, breathing patterns, spear techniques carved from habit. But lately, every swing, every exhale seemed to echo deeper through his body.
Tonight, he felt it reach a point he couldn't ignore.
He placed the spear across his knees and closed his eyes. The wind around him slowed, the sound of the river fading into a low hum.
His breathing deepened and his heart steadied.
The energy rose — not like before, when rage or fear pushed it — but calm, steady, like something waking up. It flowed through his veins, light and heavy at once, a rhythm that matched the blowing wind around him.
His body trembled slightly and his palms burned faintly red.
He didn't fight it, not this time. He guided it — with peace and understanding.
Images flickered behind his closed eyes: the forest, Elder Shan's calm voice, the training circles of his first village, the taste of failure, the memory of sacrifice his brother made.
The energy surged suddenly, sharp and alive, racing through his limbs like fire through dry leaves.
His spear pulsed with light — faint at first, then strong, a deep crimson glow tracing its edge.
Lin Ziao's eyes snapped open. They burned faintly with the same hue — not wild, but controlled.
The wind around him quivered, grass bending in circles around where he sat.
Ruo lifted its head, fur bristling.
Then, just as suddenly, the energy calmed.
The wind carried away the heat, the light dimmed, and Lin Ziao's body relaxed again.
He exhaled slowly. Steam rose from his skin, sweat clinging to his face, but his eyes were steady. His bloodline had awakened — stage two, spoken of. He could feel the difference in strength and in stillness.
He stood, picking up the spear. The weapon felt lighter now, or maybe he had simply grown into it. He swung it once — a clean, swift motion that split the air with a faint whistle.
The ripple it left behind shimmered faintly, as if the very wind obeyed his call.
He smiled faintly, breathless but calm. "So this is what control feels like."
Ruo trotted over, circling him once before curling at his feet.
Lin Ziao crouched beside it, patting its soft fur. "Don't worry," he said quietly. "No more running. No more hiding."
He looked toward the dark line of the forest far in the distance — a place that once haunted him but now felt smaller, weaker.
"The past will always chase," he murmured. "But I'm not that weakling anymore."
The moon rose above the plains, bright.
He trained until dawn, the spear moving like an extension of his own breath, each strike smooth and alive.
The ground around him glowed faintly with the afterimage of his movements — silent proof of the breakthrough.
When he finally stopped, the horizon was painted with gold.
He looked down at Ruo, who was now dozing on a patch of grass near the riverbank.
"Let's go home," Lin Ziao said softly. "We've got work to do."
Now he had the transformation of stage one and stage two power to fight his battle.