The cold bit like a thousand needles.
He lay face down on a strange riverbank, half his body still submerged in icy water. Every shallow breath wrenched pain from bones that felt shattered. His awareness flickered like a candle in the wind, caught between darkness and blurred light.
He tried to move a finger—pain lanced through him, sharp and numbing. He didn't know how long the river had carried him, or where he had washed ashore. The flames of the Ling estate, the clash of blades, Old Zhong's bloody fall… were they a nightmare? No—the wounds burning across his body proved it was real.
Survival pulled at him. Slowly, like a wounded beast, he dragged himself up the muddy slope, elbows sinking into slime. The effort drained him. He collapsed in the muck, coughing violently until bile and dirty river water spilled from his mouth.
Hunger, cold, wounds, exhaustion—wave after wave crashed over him, threatening to drown his will. He stared at the gray, rain-lashed sky above, tears mingling with the drops.
Why… why must the Ling family suffer this? Father… Zhong…
For a moment, he wished it would end. To simply let the night swallow him. No more hatred. No more fear.
But then—
Something hard pressed against his palm.
The jade pendant. His father's final gift.
And in his chest, the waterlogged, bloodstained bundle Old Zhong had thrust upon him.
Live!
His father's broken shout, Zhong's unfinished plea, thundered in his ears.
Hatred ignited like fire. The weakness was burned away.
I will not die!
The Ling family's blood debt must be repaid!
Gao Wenchang—by my vow, so long as I draw breath, I will see you fall!
The oath seared into him, filling his limbs with raw strength. Shaking, staggering, he forced himself upright. Each step tore at his wounds; his body trembled uncontrollably. Still, he stumbled toward the shadow of trees along the riverbank, desperate for shelter.
He did not make it far. His vision swam, blackness closed in, and he fell heavily to the ground.
He awoke to the creak of wheels and a warmth laid across his chest.
He was on a cart. A rough wooden cart, piled with nets and baskets. A coarse-smelling burlap cloth—fish and sweat—covered him. Rain pattered faintly overhead.
"Ah… poor lad," a voice muttered. Old, weary, kind. "So young… almost frozen stiff out there."
Ling Yuan forced open heavy eyelids. Through the haze he saw the bent back of an old fisherman, straw cloak dripping, pulling the cart with effort.
The man turned, revealing a weathered face lined by years of wind and rain. His eyes widened in surprise.
"Oh! You're awake? Heaven keeps you! When I found you, I thought I'd hooked a river ghost."
Ling Yuan tried to speak, but only a cough tore from his dry throat.
"Don't strain." The fisherman hurried to pour tepid water from a battered skin, holding it to his lips. "You've a burning fever. My shack's just ahead—my wife's soup will set you right."
The water slid down like life itself. Ling Yuan rasped two hoarse words:
"Thank… you…"
The old man chuckled. "Thank me? What's there to thank? Fate brought us together. But I reckon you've met with trouble, eh? These are cruel times…"
At that, Ling Yuan's heart clenched. His guard shot up. He closed his eyes and let silence mask him.
The fisherman's hut was a crumbling straw-roofed shack on the riverside. His wife, a quiet, tired woman, wordlessly set a steaming bowl of thin fish soup before the half-dead stranger.
Under their care, Ling Yuan's fever broke after a day. He lay on a wooden cot, wrapped in a patched quilt that smelled of damp and sunlight, his heart heavy with gratitude—and dread.
He could not stay. If soldiers tracked him here, these kind souls would pay with their lives.
At dawn the next day, with his strength barely returning, Ling Yuan rose. He left behind his one salvageable garment of fine silk—a ruined undershirt, but worth some coin—as payment. Then, kneeling in the dirt, he bowed three times toward the couple's sleeping forms.
He gathered the jade pendant and the iron token to his chest, pushed open the groaning wooden door, and slipped back into the night.
He needed a disguise.
At a stream, he stared at his reflection—thin, battered, yet still carrying the features of a scholar. Jaw set, he picked up a sharp stone and scraped away his beard, drawing blood. Then he smeared mud and crushed grass over his pale skin, until no trace of nobility remained. His hair he knotted into a tangled, filthy mass.
A beggar stared back from the water.
At dawn, he crept into a nearby village. From a drying line he stole a patched set of coarse gray clothes. Slipping into them, he pressed the jade and iron token tight against his chest.
The capital—behind him—was hell and ashes.
He turned west.
Soon he came upon a ragged band of refugees—hollow-eyed families fleeing famine and war. Without a word, he joined them. No one looked twice; there were too many like him now.
Ling Yuan was gone. From this day, his name was Lin Yan.
Head bowed, he walked on with the exiles. Hunger gnawed his belly, the road stretched endless, and the future lay shrouded in fog.
But somewhere to the west, in Blue Stone Alley, a lame blacksmith named Uncle Ya waited.
Would he be the first step on the road of vengeance? Or another shadow in the mist?
Lin Yan did not know.
He only knew this: he must keep walking.