By the time Fang Xi stepped out of the Stonewind Pavilion, the late afternoon sun had already dipped behind the western ridge, casting long blue shadows across the courtyard. Disciples murmured in small groups, comparing breathing techniques and idle gossip. A few glanced in his direction, but no one approached.
He walked in silence.
His feet carried him down the narrow stone path leading to the outer disciple quarters. The mountain wind whispered through the trees, tugging at his thin robes. Cold bit at his skin, but he welcomed it. Clarity often came with discomfort.
"Zhou Yiren. Chen Zhi. Elder Wu. The pieces are on the board."
"Now… I cultivate."
Back in his hut — a lopsided wooden box with more mold than space — Fang Xi sat cross-legged on the floor. A ragged cloth wrapped around his shoulders. Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the world was still.
He placed one hand on his abdomen. The other rested atop his knee. Slowly, methodically, he began the first cycle.
Qi rose.
From the air — thin, diluted, barely perceptible — a trace of spiritual energy flowed through his nose and mouth. It coiled inside him, tugged by intention, guided by memory. It passed through his chest, slid along his shoulder meridian, dipped down through his dantian.
Pain sparked.
His third inner channel was still partially blocked — a narrow fork behind his spine where Qi resisted movement. Like trying to push water through cracked bone.
But he didn't stop.
He welcomed the pain. Pain reminded him he was not dreaming. That this body was real. That he had returned.
"Six days ago, I was a dead legend."
"Now I am a novice, cultivating in secret, hiding like a rat in a barn."
His breath trembled once. Then it steadied.
Another cycle. Then another.
Slowly, the Qi formed a second strand beside the first in his dantian — crude, unstable, but his.
"Two threads. Not much. But they're mine."
The hours slipped by.
In the distance, the mountain gong rang twice — nightfall.
And then came the knock.
A sharp rap against the hut door.
Fang Xi opened his eyes. His breath slowed to normal. He stood, wrapped his robe tighter, and opened the door.
There stood Chen Zhi, teeth chattering, grinning like an excited ox.
"You still alive in there?" he joked. "Didn't freeze to death while meditating?"
Fang Xi gave a small nod. "Just finished."
Chen Zhi leaned in. "Good. You'll need every drop of Qi you've got. Elder Gan just announced the roster for this week's Beast Duty. And guess what?"
Fang Xi's expression didn't change. "We're on it."
Chen Zhi grinned. "Together. Tomorrow morning. First light."
They walked through the snow toward the mess hall, booted feet crunching through frost-covered soil.
The sect's outer courtyard was quiet at this hour. A few lanterns glowed faintly, lighting the stone paths between dormitories and storage sheds. Smoke drifted from the kitchen chimney.
Fang Xi glanced at the faint silhouette of the mountain's second peak — the southern trail.
"That's where the beasts roam. Just past the old spirit well. Forest too thick to patrol properly. Good for training. Or dying."
He spoke aloud, voice casual. "Anyone die last week?"
Chen Zhi scratched his head. "One outer disciple from Thornveil Hall. Bitten by a twin-headed shadow hound. They said he bled out before the elders arrived."
Fang Xi's eyes narrowed slightly.
"So… late response. No recovery talismans. Low supervision."
"Perfect."
"Risky, yes. But opportunity blooms best where the sect turns its gaze away."
Inside the mess hall, disciples sat around rough wooden tables, eating thin rice porridge and stale dumplings. The air smelled of boiled cabbage and smoke.
Zhao Min sat in the corner with his usual entourage, laughing loudly and spitting bones onto the floor. Zhou Yiren sat alone at a side table, calmly eating with one hand while flipping a cultivation scroll with the other.
Fang Xi ignored them all.
He sat with Chen Zhi and ate in silence.
After the meal, they returned to the hut. Chen Zhi mumbled something about sharpening knives and fell asleep snoring a few minutes later.
Fang Xi did not sleep.
He sat by the flickering lantern flame, sharpening his own knife on a flat stone, stroke by quiet stroke. His fingers moved with delicate patience.
"Beast Duty."
"A group mission beyond sect walls. No talismans. No interference. A chance to observe weakness. Create conflict. Maybe… even kill."
He touched the edge of the blade. Sharp. Thin.
"If the others die… that's the sect's fault."
"But if they survive — I'll decide how and why."