The wind howled through the chasm like the wail of a dying god. Jagged stone teeth lined the canyon walls, and gnarled roots of petrified trees burst through the cliffside, casting twisted shadows that danced in the flickering moonlight. Ash Lockwood crouched atop a narrow outcrop, cloaked in dust and silence, eyes fixed on the winding trail below.
Behind him, the Crimson Fang Unit lay in wait.
This was no simple trail. It was the Deadroot Pass—a near-forgotten trade route now rumored to be haunted. Local myths spoke of voices in the dark, of travelers vanishing without a trace. Ash knew better. The serpent had revealed the truth days ago: the Yin Clan used the myth as camouflage for secret movements.
Tonight, they would strike.
Ash whispered commands into the night. Mira, shield in hand, vanished into the right flank with a squad of three. Talin crouched near the rear trail fork, fingers pressed to the stone, feeling every tremor. Two new recruits—twins named Rook and Veyra, former thieves from a border town—carried arcane nets and smoke bombs, artifacts Ash had bargained for through Marla.
"You trust these shadows with your back?" the serpent hissed, coiled invisibly beneath Ash's collar.
"No," Ash replied. "I trust my training."
"One mistake, and it's not your training that bleeds."
"Then we make no mistakes."
A low whistle echoed from Talin. The signal. Two wagons, six escorts, and one cultivator-level guard. More than they expected.
Ash signaled a delay. He watched. Calculated.
The convoy moved slowly. Cautiously. That meant suspicion. That meant preparation.
"They expect trouble," Ash muttered.
"Then give them fire."
A sharp crack echoed as Veyra's net exploded, hurling fire-thread coils around the front wagon's ox-beast. It roared, reared, and collapsed. At once, Mira charged from the right, shield raised, slamming into the closest escort. Three arrows followed—Rook had taken position high above.
Ash moved like a phantom, dropping from his perch into the chaos. His flame pulse flared, a compressed burst of fire hammering a swordsman off his feet.
Talin called out.
"Cultivator—left side, charging!"
Ash didn't hesitate. He rolled, grabbed a flash bomb, and hurled it. The explosion bathed the area in searing white.
The cultivator staggered—just long enough.
Ash was on him in a heartbeat. He slammed his elbow into the man's throat, drove a dagger into his hip joint, then hit him point-blank with a fire pulse. The scream was brief.
"That wasn't elegant," the serpent commented.
"War rarely is."
Within minutes, it was over.
Bodies lay scattered. One wagon burned. The other intact.
Mira knelt, bloodied but stable. Rook and Veyra grinned like devils.
Ash scanned the bodies.
Two were still alive.
He signaled to bind them.
Ash stood before the prisoners, hands clasped behind his back.
"Who sent the shipment?"
One spat blood. "You think we fear death?"
Ash smiled coldly.
"No. But I think you fear pain."
He nodded to Mira. She raised a palm. Her Soul Mark glimmered faintly—time seemed to slow around her.
Ash moved between them, blade in hand, faster than they could react.
By the time she released the power, one prisoner was screaming, clutching a ruined hand.
The other broke.
"It's alchemist supplies—for the Yin Clan's eastern outpost. There's a new forge master experimenting with fire poison."
Ash's eyes narrowed.
"Fire poison," the serpent whispered. "That knowledge was lost... centuries ago."
"And now the Yin Clan has it."
Later that night, the unit gathered around the stolen supplies. Veyra pulled back a tarp to reveal fire-root vials, toxin-treated forge ore, and enchanted flame stones.
Ash paced.
"This isn't just a shipment. It's part of something larger."
"Do not chase ghosts," the serpent warned.
"I don't need to. They're coming alive on their own."
He turned to his squad.
"We'll sell half of this through Marla. Fund more gear. The rest, we study. Learn their secrets. And the Yin forge master? We make him our next target."
"You're not building soldiers," the serpent said slowly. "You're building war."
Ash nodded.
"War is coming. I'm just making sure we're ready first."
Two days later, as the unit regrouped at Marla's estate, Ash visited the holding pens again. The serpent had insisted one prisoner held something... different.
Arlen was a pale man in his forties with surgical scars on both hands. The overseer claimed he was a failed alchemist who tried to poison a minor noble.
Ash crouched.
"You heal or you harm?"
Arlen raised his head. "Depends who's asking."
"He carries a Soul Mark linked to cellular memory," the serpent said. "He can feel how bodies fit together."
Ash stood.
"You're Crimson Fang now. You stitch us back together when we bleed. You work under Mira. Welcome to hell."
By the time the moon waned again, the Crimson Fang Unit numbered ten.
Each night, Ash stared at the flame of their stolen campfire and remembered a name from Earth. One fallen comrade. One broken promise.
He didn't plan to break any more.