Morning fog hung like gauze over the desolate western road beyond Sishui Town.
With a small pack on his back, Lin Yan walked slowly but with iron resolve.
He never once looked behind him; the town that had given him brief shelter—and hidden peril—was gone.
Inside Wang's parting bundle were more than food and a handful of coins. Nestled among them lay a small, finely honed dagger—an unspoken gift that warmed Lin Yan's chest yet weighed on his heart.
From the moment he'd stepped out that door, he knew he could rely on no one but himself.
The farther west he went, the rougher the ground grew and the emptier the road became.
He kept his pace steady, just a weary traveler among many, yet every sense was taut, scanning for movement or sound behind him.
The feeling of being watched hadn't faded—it lurked, ebbing and surging like a hidden tide.
He could no longer tell if it was the same shadow from Sishui or a new one.
So he assumed the worst: Gao Wenchang's hunters—or others just as dangerous—were on his trail.
That night he dozed in a ruined teahouse by the roadside, sleeping light against a cold wall, waking at every stir of wind.
By the second day he left the main highway, following a foresters' track he remembered from the map in his mind.
The way was steeper, the forest denser—but it offered cover.
Not long after he entered the woods, the unease sharpened.
Footsteps. Distant, deliberate. More than one set—skilled pursuers holding a steady gap, patient as wolves waiting for fatigue to take him.
Cold sweat slicked his back.
He gripped the dagger hidden under his cloak, thoughts racing.
Fight? He didn't know their number or skill; his own strength was barely half-spent.
Run? They would close in soon enough.
He needed a trick, not a clash.
Ahead, a mountain stream tore through a rocky gully—wild, narrow, its brown water foaming over stones.
A barrier—or a chance.
He dashed toward it, picking the shallowest run he could find and plunged in.
The water bit like knives, surging to his thighs, threatening to sweep him away.
He braced, staggered, forced his way across.
On the far side he veered upstream for a while, then turned back, wading downstream for several dozen paces before climbing out again into a patch of rank, reeking ginger grass.
There he flattened himself, breath locked, motionless.
The current would wash away his scent and prints; the change of direction would mislead.
Moments later, three men in gray fighting garb appeared at the opposite bank—hard-eyed, disciplined.
"Damn it, he runs well."
"Tracks end at the river. You think he crossed?"
"Split up. He won't get far. Orders are clear—dead or alive."
Two vaulted across the torrent, one upstream, one down, while the third stayed behind to guard.
Their voices faded, boots crunching through brush.
Lin Yan lay still.
He could hear his own heartbeat hammering louder than the river.
The ginger's acrid scent burned his nose; icy water soaked his legs.
He dared not twitch a finger.
At last the searchers regrouped and withdrew.
Even then he waited, counting the slow crawl of half an hour before daring to move.
When silence truly returned, he exhaled, trembling with exhaustion and relief.
He'd shaken them—this time.
But the reprieve was fragile.
Those men were organized, ruthless. Someone had sent them with purpose.
Were they Gao Wenchang's?
Or another hand chasing the same secret—after Wang, after the mute blacksmith?
Night fell before he found shelter: a narrow cleft beneath a cliff face.
He lit a thumb-sized fire, dried his clothes, gnawed on cold rations.
His body ached, yet his mind refused rest.
The flames threw twisted shadows on the rock wall, like lurking shapes ready to pounce.
Three hundred li to the west—he'd barely begun, and already the path was edged with death.
What awaited at Heishui Fort?
Who—or what—was the Butcher?
He touched the three things hidden close to his skin: the jade pendant, the iron token, the black key.
Cold. Silent.
The only allies he had left.
Outside, some beast howled in the dark.
Lin Yan fed another stick to the fire.
In its glow, his eyes burned—tired, yet unyielding.
The hunt was not over.
And hunters rarely gave up once they had tasted the scent.