Snow drifted steadily into the narrow defile, veiling the cliffs in pale silence. Li Wei moved with deliberate care, each step sinking lightly into the powder, each breath measured. His hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword. The stillness was wrong. It was the kind of silence that pressed against the skin, heavy and watchful.
He slowed, eyes scanning. A broken branch jutted at an odd angle from the cliffside, the wood too fresh to be natural. In the snow, subtle depressions marred the surface—boots, quickly brushed over, but not by wind. He crouched, brushing a glove against the marks. The qi lingering there was faint but unmistakably human.
"They're here," he murmured, straightening.
The gorge stretched long before him, its walls narrowing until even two wagons could not pass side by side. An ideal choke point. He pressed forward, steps noiseless, senses wide.
---
Halfway through the pass, the trap was sprung.
A shrill whistle cut the air. Snow erupted from the cliffs as masked figures surged out, blades flashing, ropes weighted with iron hooks whistling toward him. Li Wei pivoted, Flowing Cloud Steps blurring his outline as the first hook clattered harmlessly against stone. Three figures landed in front of him, two more at his back, their qi coordinated, pressing in like a closing net.
"Alive," one barked through a mask. "Don't waste him!"
So it was true. They didn't want him dead. They wanted him taken.
Li Wei's blade hissed free.
The first attacker lunged, spear thrusting in a jagged rhythm. Li Wei sidestepped, steel singing as Tempest Fang Slash roared out. The strike carved a crescent of wind that split the spear's shaft in two and sent its wielder tumbling. Before the body hit snow, another came from his flank—short sword darting in, fast and precise.
He met it with Whirlwind Slash, the old technique executed with perfect timing. Steel rang, sparks flew, and the masked figure staggered back, blood darkening the snow.
But the slavers pressed harder. Two hooked ropes lashed out, catching his sleeve and yanking him off balance. A third slammed a heavy cudgel toward his ribs. He twisted, absorbing part of the blow with his shoulder, pain searing through muscle. His sleeve tore free as he spun, blade flashing to sever the ropes.
"Damn stubborn brat!" one snarled.
More shadows dropped from above, doubling their numbers. The pass echoed with shouts and clashing steel. Snow swirled into chaos as qi techniques ignited—shards of ice hurled like knives, arcs of flame searing the air, ropes snapping toward him with vicious precision. Li Wei's sword blurred, each stroke cutting lines of survival against the tightening noose.
One slaver lashed a chain tipped with hooked blades, forcing Li Wei to duck low as the weapon carved furrows into the cliff wall. Another exhaled a mist of icy qi, the vapor hardening into jagged shards that hissed toward his face. He spun through them, Flowing Cloud Steps carrying him into striking distance. His blade flashed, cutting down the ice cultivator before the man could finish a second technique.
Flowing Cloud Steps carried him deeper into their formation. His sword swept wide, Tempest Fang Slash tearing through the chain weapon and the man wielding it in one brutal arc. Blood fanned across the snow. The others hesitated, then pressed in again with renewed fury.
Minutes stretched like hours. Qi clashed against qi, boots pounded against stone, and the defile became a storm of steel and frost. Every breath came ragged, every movement edged with exhaustion, but still he pressed on, refusing the net that sought to close around him.
By the time the last slaver fell, the snow was churned into crimson slush, the cliffs echoing with silence once more.
Li Wei stood hunched, one hand pressed against his side. Blood seeped between his fingers where the cudgel had landed hard. His breath came ragged, his limbs trembling from exertion. The pain was sharp, threatening to cripple if left untreated.
With a grimace, he fished into his pack and withdrew a small vial of healing medicine—simple but effective, bought for moments like this. He hesitated only a moment before uncorking it and downing the bitter liquid.
Heat spread through his chest, dulling the pain, knitting torn flesh and bruised bone. It would not erase the injury, but it would keep him moving, keep him alive. The vial was gone now, another expense burned away on the road.
He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing.
He lowered himself to the snow, forcing his breath into the rhythm of Azure Wind Scripture. Qi moved sluggishly through battered channels, but steadied with each cycle. He would need a day or two to recover fully before returning to Heavenly Dragon Sect. Recklessness now would mean death on the road back.
When strength returned to his fingers, he turned to the fallen slavers. Their masks were plain wood lacquered black, their weapons practical and well-maintained. On one corpse, tucked into a pouch, he found a strip of parchment marked with crude symbols—arrows pointing deeper north, a circle around a mountain valley.
Evidence. Proof this ambush was not a chance encounter, but part of a larger design.
He folded the parchment carefully and slid it into his sleeve. His jaw tightened. "So you harvest even here… how deep do your roots run?"
Exploring further, he discovered small cages stacked beneath a tarp near the cliff wall. Empty, but still reeking of blood and fear. The sight chilled him more than the snow. These were not hunters improvising; this was a trade, organized and efficient.
He found more. A small pouch of coins stamped with foreign mint. A bundle of clothing in child's sizes, torn and stained. And a strip of cloth bearing a merchant guild's seal, half-burned as if to conceal the evidence. Each discovery turned the cold in his chest to steel. These were not isolated raiders. This was a vein of the same corruption he had already seen once before.
The realization burned through him. Redclaw Hollow had only been the edge of a blade—here was the cutting force beneath.
The snow fell heavier now, covering the bodies, muting the blood into a dark shadow beneath white drifts. Li Wei dragged the corpses into a pile and set them alight, smoke rising gray against the falling snow. He could not risk survivors, nor could he leave evidence of Heavenly Dragon's presence for others to scavenge.
When the flames settled into embers, he made camp at the base of a cliff, sheltered beneath an overhang. He set his sword across his knees, legs folded as he sank into meditation. Pain still gnawed at him, but each breath through the Azure Wind Scripture bound his qi tighter, hardening his foundation even as his body strained.
Through the night, he listened to the wind howl through the pass. Every crack of ice and shift of snow seemed an enemy's footstep, every gust a whisper of pursuit. Yet he did not sleep. He kept vigil, eyes closed but senses wide, the fire in his core burning steady.
When dawn came, pale and cold, he rose with stiffness but also with clarity. His wounds throbbed, but the protective medicine had bought him strength enough to endure. Two more days of rest would see him ready to return—and ready to carry this evidence back to the sect.
On the second day, a snowstorm swept the pass, burying the battlefield entirely. Li Wei sat in his shelter, watching the white curtain fall. Somewhere beyond the storm, he knew more slavers moved, regrouping. Perhaps they searched for their missing cell. Perhaps they already prepared another net. He clenched his fist, the parchment crinkling in his sleeve. Let them come. He would cut through them all.
---
High on the cliff above, unseen eyes watched, then withdrew. A messenger slipped away into the storm, carrying word: the boy lived, but had drawn blood. The network would not underestimate him again.
And in the heart of the mountains, darker nets waited.