The next day, a few hours after the sun rises high enough to cast sharp shadows across the town walls, Merin rides out from the eastern gate.
With him are two groups.
A team from the Duan Family, mounted and disciplined, riding in formation.
And a unit of the town militia, led by their commander.
Han Futong rides beside Merin, his posture upright despite his age.
The militia commander leads at the front, guiding the procession along the dirt road that winds toward the Cold Silver Metal Mine.
Behind the militia ride Merin and Han Futong, flanked and followed by Merin's family guards.
Dust rises beneath hooves.
The wind carries the scent of dry soil and distant forest.
Merin glances sideways at Han Futong.
"Official Han," he says calmly, "you did not need to come."
Han Futong smiles faintly.
"There is nothing for me to do alone in the office," he replies.
They continue riding.
After a moment, Han Futong speaks again.
"The mine closed only a few years after I was transferred here. I opposed the decision at the time." His tone carries quiet regret. "Reopening the mine… perhaps that will be the last thing I accomplish before retirement."
Merin nods.
They ride for nearly an hour.
The terrain grows uneven. The road narrows slightly as it approaches the foothills leading toward the mine's location.
Suddenly, the militia ahead pulls their reins sharply.
Horses neigh and shift uneasily.
Merin tightens his grip and halts his mount.
With a subtle press of his feet, he signals his horse forward, guiding it past several militia riders until he reaches the front, where he stops beside the militia commander.
"Have we reached the mine?" Merin asks.
He already sees the answer.
Across the path, blocking the road, stand a group of northern barbarians.
Their bodies are covered in thick animal fur. Broad shoulders. Weathered faces. Weapons, axes, spears, and heavy maces rest easily in their hands.
Among them stands one figure dressed differently, a tribal shaman, holding a decorated staff adorned with bone charms and feathers.
Merin lowers his voice so only the militia commander hears.
"What tribe?"
Fu Zeye narrows his eyes.
"No visible symbol," he murmurs. "I cannot tell."
Merin's gaze sharpens.
"What do you suggest?"
Fu Zeye answers quietly, "Let me speak first."
Merin inclines his head.
Fu Zeye nudges his horse forward several meters and raises his voice.
"You stand within the territory of the Song Kingdom," he declares. "State your purpose."
From the barbarian side, a heavily tattooed man steps forward. His bare chest is marked with dark symbols, his expression unyielding.
"This land," he says in accented but clear speech, "is now the hunting territory of the Raven Tribe."
Fu Zeye stiffens.
"Raven Tribe," he whispers grimly to Merin.
Then, lower still, "Governor, the Raven Tribe is large. A direct conflict requires discussion at higher levels. We should withdraw."
The tattooed barbarian raises his weapon slightly.
"Leave now," he calls out, "or remain here forever."
A sharp war cry erupts from the barbarians.
The horses behind Merin grow agitated, hooves scraping the ground.
Merin gently strokes his mount's neck, calming it.
His gaze remains fixed on the Raven Tribe.
He observes in silence.
And as he does,
Understanding dawns.
The framework of his physical cultivation technique had always felt incomplete. It contained the Law of Dragon, the Law of Strength, and the Law of Transformation.
But something essential was absent.
His Dao.
His Dao of the Virtual World.
The technique elevates life level, but it does not bind faith. It does not project presence. It does not shape perception.
He must add his Dao into the structure.
He must become something more than merely strong.
He must become a living totem.
A humanoid symbol of power.
Only then can believers gather around him naturally, even before he reaches the Saint Realm.
The barbarians grow restless at the continued silence.
More threats are shouted.
Weapons shift.
Han Futong guides his horse closer to Merin.
"Governor," he urges, "let us withdraw and return with a proper army."
Fu Zeye adds firmly, "Declaring war against a major tribe requires court approval."
Han Futong sighs. "That could take years."
Merin exhales slowly.
Then, without another word, he swings one leg over and jumps lightly from his horse.
He lands steadily on the dirt path.
Fu Zeye's eyes widen.
"Governor! What are you doing?"
"I will handle this," Merin replies.
"The court, " Fu Zeye begins.
Merin does not turn back.
He walks forward calmly toward the Raven Tribe.
Fu Zeye looks over his shoulder at Ziqi, who sits mounted among the Duan guards.
"Are you not going to stop your lord?" Fu Zeye demands.
Ziqi's expression remains neutral.
"My lord does not act without reason," he says flatly. "It is not your place to question."
Fu Zeye's face tightens at the blunt response. He snorts quietly but says nothing further.
Ahead, Merin has already crossed half the distance between the two groups.
The barbarians shift.
Two of them step forward suddenly.
Each grips a massive single-handed axe.
With a roar, they charge.
The two barbarians surge forward like ravens diving from the sky, axes raised high, their boots thundering against the dirt. Behind them, the rest of the Raven Tribe erupts in bloodthirsty howls, their weapons lifted, eyes blazing with savage anticipation.
Merin does not retreat.
As the first axe cleaves downward, he shifts sideways with fluid precision. The blade whistles past his shoulder, slicing only air. The second barbarian swings horizontally, aiming to split his ribs.
Merin pivots.
His feet slide half a step, body rotating between the two incoming strikes.
In the same breath, his palms thrust forward.
Two strikes.
Simultaneous.
His fists land squarely over each barbarian's chest, directly above the heart.
Qi surges through his arms at the moment of impact.
It does not explode outward.
It enters.
Like a spear of compressed force, his qi penetrates their flesh, threads through bone and muscle, and erupts inside their chests.
The barbarians freeze mid-motion.
Their axes drop from numb fingers.
Blood bursts from their mouths in violent sprays.
Their eyes widen in disbelief before the light within them extinguishes.
Both fall backwards in heavy thuds, dust rising around their lifeless bodies.
Silence descends.
The Raven Tribe stares.
Two of their warriors were killed in a single exchange.
Merin stands unmoved between the corpses.
Only the shaman does not react with shock.
The rest erupt in rage.
With a unified roar, they charge.
At the same time, the shaman steps forward. He lifts his long, decorated staff and slams its base against the earth.
The ground trembles faintly.
From the carved head of the staff, black mist spills outward as ink poured into water.
It spreads rapidly, thick and choking.
Within seconds, the battlefield is swallowed.
Behind Merin, Fu Zeye sneers, glancing at Ziqi.
"Rescue your lord quickly," he says sharply. "No one has ever walked out alive from the Raven Tribe's Dead Mist."
Ziqi does not answer.
He only snorts softly.
Yet his hands tighten slightly on the reins.
He watches the black fog with steady eyes.
Inside the mist,
Vision vanishes.
Merin cannot see his own hands.
He releases his spirit instinctively.
But his spirit sense is distorted.
It collides with the mist like waves against stone, scattering chaotically, feeding him false impressions, phantom movements, shifting silhouettes, and misleading echoes.
The mist suppresses perception.
He withdraws his spirit immediately.
Instead, he listens.
He inhales.
The smell of damp earth and sweat.
The faint metallic scent of blood.
He hears boots scraping the ground.
Breathing.
The subtle displacement of air.
A shift of wind to his right.
He moves instantly.
His body slides left.
A heavy weapon cuts through the space he occupied.
Without hesitation, Merin drives his fist toward the source of the movement.
Impact.
He feels ribs collapse beneath his knuckles.
A strangled cry escapes a throat.
A body crashes at his feet.
Another rush of wind from behind.
He drops low.
A mace sweeps overhead.
He spins on one knee and strikes upward.
His elbow slams into a jaw with bone-shattering force.
Teeth scatter.
A second body falls.
The mist swirls violently as shapes charge blindly through it.
Merin remains calm.
He does not waste motion.
A spear thrust pierces through where his chest had been moments earlier.
He twists, gripping the shaft, yanking the wielder forward into a crushing knee strike.
He hears cartilage snap.
Another scream.
The mist muffles sound, but not completely.
He moves through it like a shadow.
Listening.
Smelling.
Feeling vibrations in the ground.
A barbarian lunges.
Merin sidesteps and drives his palm into the warrior's throat.
Cracking.
Collapse.
Another approaches from his left.
He hears the quickened breath before the weapon falls.
He ducks, steps inside the arc, and drives his shoulder into the man's sternum.
Bone caves inward.
The body hits the earth heavily.
Around him, confusion spreads among the Raven Tribe.
They cannot see him either.
Their own mist traps them.
He uses it.
A faint whistle of air from above.
He rolls forward just as an axe descends.
He grabs the attacker's wrist mid-swing and twists sharply.
The joint dislocates with a pop.
He strikes once more.
Silence.
One by one, the crashing sounds diminish.
Breathing grows sparse.
The mist begins to thin.
Slowly, the black fog disperses under the breeze.
Shapes emerge.
On the dirt path lie bodies.
Axes and spears were scattered among them.
Merin stands at the centre.
Five members of the Raven Tribe remain upright.
Each bears visible injuries, broken limbs, shattered ribs, and blood dripping from split skin.
Their eyes are wide.
They look not at Merin,
But toward the shaman.
The shaman stands at the rear, expression unreadable beneath his markings.
He meets their gaze.
Then he nods once.