Chapter 2:Dark Forest
The two soldiers on horseback stopped, glancing down at him with impassive eyes. One of them grunted, dismounted, and yanked the chain with practiced force. The prisoner didn't move.
"He's out," one said. "Won't make it on his feet."
The other nodded and gave his horse a soft nudge forward. "Then we drag him."
The road leading into the Dense Eastern Forest stretched long and narrow, winding between jagged cliffs and sharp bamboo thickets. It was a road feared by most. Bandits did not enter. Merchants avoided it unless protected. Cultivators only passed through in numbers.
And today, it was the road for a corpse to be made into food for beasts.
The soldiers looped the iron chain through the saddle ring and mounted again. As the horse began its slow walk, the body of the broken man—still chained at neck, wrists, and ankles—was dragged behind.
The sound was horrific.
Chains grinding against stone.
Flesh scraping across dirt, then stone, then gravel.
A sharp red line formed behind him on the road—his blood painting a path as clear as a commandment from the heavens. His bare feet, torn open and oozing, left pieces of skin behind. His back, already covered in bruises and lashes, now tore further as every rock and root tore through the thin cloth and into the soft meat beneath.
He didn't scream.
He didn't moan.
Because he was unconscious.
Because even in pain, his soul had long retreated.
The horses continued the slow march. The guards did not speak. Their armor rattled softly, swords sheathed but ever-ready. Yet in their eyes, there was no alertness. Only duty.
This wasn't a mission.
It was a disposal.
They rode deeper into the forest. Trees thickened, light dimmed. The blood on the ground became harder to see—but the smell of it grew stronger. Even the wind now carried that scent. It mixed with the rot of fallen leaves and the distant calls of beasts waking for the night.
Finally, the soldiers reached a clearing. The trees around it were warped, twisted in shape as if they had long watched horrors unfold. Bones of animals littered the ground. Half-buried skulls. Claw marks on bark.
Perfect.
This was the place.
They dismounted, pulling the chain. The unconscious figure dragged another few feet before one soldier knelt beside him and snapped shut thick iron cuffs around his already swollen wrists and ankles. They locked him to a crooked iron post embedded deep into the stone floor of the forest, a remnant from older times.
He didn't resist. He couldn't.
His head lolled sideways, eyes half-open but seeing nothing.
Then came the final act.
From large black sacks, the soldiers began to pull bodies—wrapped in cloth, limp, lifeless. They didn't whisper prayers. They didn't hesitate. They tossed each body with casual cruelty, placing them far and wide around the clearing.
One by one.
Elderly. Children. Women. Men.
All members of the same bloodline. The same clan that had once stood tall. The same clan now erased.
Only one remained alive.
And even he… was barely so.
They opened the wrappings of the corpses—exposing flesh to the open air. Some still bled. Others had decayed just enough to attract what was needed.
Blood. Human blood.
That was the bait.
The scent of human blood in large quantities would draw in all manner of predators.
Wolves.
Panthers.
Ghouls.
Even… werewolves.
Creatures that walked the line between beast and cursed man.
And in the center of that feast would be him—chained, broken, defenseless.
The soldiers stood for a moment. One wiped sweat from his brow. The other looked toward the distant tree line where yellow eyes already blinked in the darkness.
"They'll come soon," one said.
The other nodded. "Then our job is done."
They returned to their horses, giving one last look to the man at the center. No farewell. No insult. Not even a name.
Just silence.
The horses neighed nervously, sensing what approached from the dark. Leaves rustled in every direction. The faint growl of a beast echoed from the cliff above. A hyena's laugh answered from the west.
Still, the soldiers remained calm.
Because they would not return.
They never intended to.
With one final hand sign—a twist of fingers, a pulse of inner qi—their veins lit with a red glow. It raced up their necks, to their faces, into their eyes.
Then—
BOOM!
The first soldier exploded in a burst of crimson flame.
Not fire. Not blood.
But pure destructive qi.
A technique forbidden by most sects.
A last-resort method used only by imperial agents to erase evidence and take secrets to the grave.
The second followed a heartbeat later.
BOOM!
Another detonation of blood and spirit energy.
The horses, now riderless, fled in opposite directions, neighing madly into the forest.
And in the clearing—only silence returned.
Only the wind and blood.
The man in chains still lay at the center. Eyes closed. His face was unmoving. His body was drenched in filth, blood, and torn cloth. Chains rattled softly as he unconsciously shifted once—perhaps in pain, or in some lingering instinct to survive.
He didn't know where he was.
He didn't know he was the last.
He didn't know the forest had now begun to close in.
From the edge of the tree line, the first wolf emerged. Its fur was matted with old blood. Its eyes glowed faintly with qi corruption—a wild beast long fed on the remains of battlefields. Behind it came another, larger and black-furred, its fangs slick with saliva.
Then more came.
One by one, drawn to the scent of slaughter.
To the bait.
To the man.
They circled the clearing slowly, sniffing the air, their growls low and wet. Some turned toward the fresh corpses, already tearing into soft skin. The sound of flesh ripping echoed. Bones cracking. Blood spraying onto the dried leaves.
One wolf approached the chained man.
It sniffed his leg.
Growled.
Then move on—for now.
The feast had begun.
And in the center of it all, the last survivor of a shattered bloodline, unconscious and shackled, lay beneath the eyes of the wilderness.
Alone.
Undefended.
Unaware.