The mountain wind howled down the pass as Lin Feng and Yin Kexin emerged from the Vault. Behind them, the ancient jade door closed with a slow grind, locking away the treasures and ghosts of the Hidden Lineage once more. But Lin Feng no longer felt like a boy standing on the edge of legend—he felt as if the roots of something old had burrowed into his very soul.
"I still feel them," he muttered, rubbing the skin of his palm where the ashes had vanished. "The voices. The memories. Like fragments waiting to settle."
"They will settle," Yin Kexin replied. "Or they'll tear you apart." She said it with the same calm one might use to describe the weather.
They had walked in silence for hours, descending the southern slope of the Cloudmist Mountains into a region of winding trails and bamboo groves. The trail ahead forked into three narrow paths, each descending into mist-covered woodlands.
Yin Kexin stopped, scanning the terrain with practiced eyes. "We split paths here," she said. "Your road leads east, toward the Valley of Ironroot. If the legends hold true, that's where the Saber's next memory will guide you."
Lin Feng furrowed his brow. "What about you?"
"I return to the coven. The Night Witches don't walk with men unless there's a reason."
Her expression softened slightly.
"You survived the Vault. More than survived—you bonded with it. That doesn't happen by accident. But the world beyond isn't ready for what you carry, Lin Feng. It will come hunting."
He nodded. "Let it come."
Yin Kexin gave a half-smile. "Careful. The first man I knew who said that died with a sword in his spine and his dreams rotting in his mouth."
Before he could respond, she stepped close. Her hand touched his chest lightly.
"Remember something," she said. "If you fall, that saber falls with you. And if it falls into the wrong hands, no one—not even your ancestors—can undo the damage."
He nodded. "I understand."
"I hope you don't. Not yet." With that, she vanished into the trees—silent as mist, leaving only footprints that vanished in moments.
---
By nightfall, Lin Feng had reached the outskirts of a broken village. Half-buried in vines and collapsed roofs, it was more ruin than home, but the scent of old smoke lingered. He wandered through cracked stone streets, eyes searching for signs of life.
He found it in the form of a stranger warming himself by a fire near the broken shrine of a forgotten deity.
The man looked up as Lin Feng approached. He was tall, lanky, dressed in faded robes and a broad-brimmed hat tipped low. A flute rested in his lap, and a half-empty bottle of plum wine sat beside him.
"Evening," the man said. His voice was friendly but sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk.
Lin Feng nodded cautiously. "Evening. Is this village abandoned?"
"Has been for a decade. Drought dried the rice fields, plague took the rest. You're the first soul I've seen here in three seasons."
He gestured at the fire. "Sit, if you'd like. Share warmth, if not names."
Lin Feng hesitated, then sat across from him. The fire crackled between them.
"I'm called Shen," the man said casually. "Former disciple of the Dusk Wind Pavilion. Current practitioner of the Wine-First Sword Style."
Lin Feng gave a small smile. "Wine-First?"
Shen lifted the bottle. "Drink first. Ask questions later. Fight only if you're still standing."
Lin Feng chuckled. He didn't know whether to trust this man, but something about him felt… grounded.
"Then I suppose I'm a student of the Jade Saber," Lin Feng replied.
Shen raised an eyebrow. "A saber man, eh? You don't look the type. Thin wrists. Straight back. But your eyes—yes, those are blade-born. I can see it."
There was a long pause, and then Shen's tone changed. "You heading east?"
"I am," Lin Feng said. "Toward Ironroot Valley."
Shen exhaled slowly. "Then you should know—there's a sect out that way. The Red Hand School. Nasty folk. Mercenaries masquerading as cultivators. They've been terrorizing merchant roads, kidnapping girls, burning farms."
Lin Feng's expression hardened. "I can handle them."
Shen's smile faded. "Don't get cocky, boy. I've seen them gut stronger men than you just to make a point. If you must go that way, stay off the roads. Travel by streambed or mountain trail."
Lin Feng nodded. "Thanks for the warning."
"And if you see their leader," Shen added, leaning in, "watch for his left hand. It's redder than the rest. Coated in cinnabar and blood. They say it's cursed—that it can crush bone with a touch."
---
The next three days passed in a blur of wild terrain and cautious footsteps. Lin Feng moved silently through the deep woods, drinking from streams, sleeping beneath roots, and training with the saber each night. His swings became smoother, his stances firmer. And sometimes—just sometimes—the saber whispered guidance into his palm.
On the fourth morning, the trees thinned and gave way to the high ridge overlooking Ironroot Valley.
What he saw made his breath catch.
Smoke curled lazily into the sky from half a dozen villages. Fields lay trampled, bodies floated down the river. In the distance, the banner of the Red Hand School fluttered like a bloodied flag.
A sense of dread settled over him.
He descended quickly, avoiding roads as Shen advised. By sundown, he reached the outskirts of a small hamlet. The town was eerily silent, doors barred, windows shuttered.
Then came the scream.
High. Female. Frantic.
Lin Feng raced toward the sound, saber in hand. He turned a corner and saw a girl—no older than sixteen—being dragged by two men in tattered red cloaks. One had a wicked hook blade. The other carried iron shackles.
"Let her go!" Lin Feng shouted.
They turned—and laughed.
"Ain't your business, boy," one sneered.
But Lin Feng was already moving.
The saber flashed once—twice—and both men hit the ground, bleeding and groaning. Lin Feng turned to the girl, helping her up. She was shaking.
"Are there more?" he asked.
She nodded. "At the old shrine. They took my sister."
"Stay hidden," Lin Feng said. "I'll bring her back."
---
The old shrine lay at the valley's edge, crumbling under vines and moss. Inside, six Red Hand disciples lounged around a brazier. A girl—barely conscious—was tied to one of the pillars.
Lin Feng moved like smoke.
The first fell before he could rise. The second screamed as jade light cleaved his weapon. The third and fourth struck together, but Lin Feng ducked low, slicing through one's leg and driving his elbow into the other's jaw. The fifth ran. The sixth—a burly man with a red-gloved hand—stepped forward with a laugh.
"You've got spirit," he said. "I'll enjoy breaking you."
They clashed with earth-shaking force.
The Red Glove's strikes were brutal, shattering stone with each swing. Lin Feng dodged, rolled, countered. The jade saber glowed brighter with every clash.
Then the man's cursed hand caught his shoulder.
Pain exploded through Lin Feng's chest, paralyzing his right arm. The saber nearly fell.
But in that instant, the voices of the ashes stirred.
> "Let the blade move you."
He shifted his stance—and let go.
The saber spun into his left hand, moved by instinct alone, and drove straight into the man's heart.
The Red Glove gasped. Blood poured from his lips.
"You… You're one of them…"
He collapsed.
Lin Feng staggered back, breathing hard.
Then, from the shrine's back, another figure stepped forward. Cloaked. Silent.
Lin Feng raised his weapon. "Another Red Hand?"
"No," the figure said, voice feminine, sharp, and composed. "I came to kill him too. But it seems you beat me to it."
She pulled back her hood, revealing a young woman with silver eyes, long dark hair braided with steel rings, and a strange crescent mark on her forehead.
"I am Liang Yue," she said. "Exile of the Snow Lotus Clan. And you just made yourself a target."
---
End of Chapter 4.