The lotus-shaped cloud still lingered above the trading post when dawn broke, pale and ominous against the sky. No wind moved it, no sun burned it away. Villagers kept glancing upward as if expecting thunderbolts to fall at any moment. Some prayed. Others packed hurriedly, fleeing before Heaven's mark drew calamity upon their town.
The caravan stirred uneasily. Wagons were readied, oxen fed, but the usual morning bustle carried a nervous edge. Merchants whispered to one another, voices sharp with blame. "We cannot travel with him. The Cloud Lotus Sect's eyes will burn us alive."
Another merchant hissed back, "Leave him here, then! Let the ember boy carry his own curse."
Dalan overheard, his scarred face hardening. He gripped the hilt of his sword and stepped closer to Zhen. "Hear them? Fear rots the spine faster than poison. They would abandon you to save their skins."
Zhen's gaze remained on the lotus cloud. Calm breath. The ember pulsed within him, warm but steady. "They speak as frightened men do. Fear makes truth louder than courage."
The caravan master called a council in the square. Guards, merchants, and villagers gathered. The air was heavy with tension, all eyes flicking between Zhen and the ominous sky.
The master's voice boomed. "The Sect's decree hangs over us all. To travel with Liang Zhen is to defy the Cloud Lotus Sect. But to abandon him is to stain our honor. We must decide."
A merchant shouted instantly, "Abandon him! We owe him nothing!" Others echoed, fearful voices tumbling over one another.
Then one guard stepped forward. His arm was bound from the ambush wound, but his eyes were fierce. "If not for him, we'd be corpses rotting in that gorge. I'll not spit on that debt."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Two more guards joined him, then another. Their voices rose: "We stand with Zhen."
The merchants faltered. Profit warred with survival in their eyes. To defy a Sect was madness… but to turn their backs on the one who had saved them felt no less dangerous.
Zhen stepped into the circle before the debate could ignite into chaos. His staff struck the ground once, sharp as a bell. All eyes turned to him.
"You owe me nothing," he said, voice calm but firm. "Your path is your own. The Sect's mark is mine, not yours. If you fear to travel with me, then go. I will walk my road alone."
The silence was heavy. Even the merchants hesitated under the weight of his steady gaze.
Dalan barked a laugh. "And so the boy shames us all with a few words. A man who refuses chains gives more freedom than a hundred banners. For myself, I'll walk with him."
The caravan master folded his arms. "So will I. The roads are cruel, and Heaven's eyes see little honor. But I'll not abandon the one who steadied us. Those who wish to leave, leave. Those who remain, stand tall."
Slowly, grudgingly, most stayed. Only two merchants packed their goods in silence and fled the post before noon, vanishing down the northern road.
The rest tightened their ranks. Fear remained, but so too did a new resolve.
The lotus cloud drifted above them still, a silent reminder of the storm to come.
The trading post emptied quickly after the council. Fear was sharper than hunger. Families who had lived by the roadside for years suddenly packed carts and drove their animals north. Shopkeepers shuttered their windows, muttering that no coin was worth defying the heavens. By midday, half the square stood abandoned, doors hanging ajar.
The lotus-shaped cloud still floated above like a scar carved into the sky. No storm came, but its very presence gnawed at the nerves of everyone below.
The caravan master gave the order to move. Wagons creaked forward, wheels biting the gravel road. The oxen bellowed in complaint, but they too seemed eager to be away from the cursed post.
Villagers lined the street to watch them leave. Some spat in the dust. Others pressed their hands together in reluctant blessings. Most simply stared at Zhen as he walked, staff in hand, eyes calm. Whispers followed him like a shadow: the ember boy… Sect-marked… cursed by Heaven… or chosen?
Dalan strode at Zhen's side, his limp more pronounced after the battle but his hand never far from his sword. He muttered, low enough only Zhen could hear. "Word travels faster than carts. By tonight, every tavern within a hundred li will be telling your tale. And every sect hound will have your scent."
"I know," Zhen said simply. His tone held no fear, only certainty.
---
The road wound out of the hills into a wide plain. Grass stretched in waves, golden under the autumn sun. The air smelled of dust and wind, clean but lonely. The caravan moved in silence broken only by the creak of wheels and the occasional cry of a hawk.
That night they camped by a shallow river. Fires were lit, but laughter did not follow. The guards kept tighter watch than usual, posting sentries even on the far bank. Merchants huddled close to their wagons, clutching their ledgers as if coin could shield them from lotus-shaped clouds.
Zhen sat apart, as he often did. Hua's shard lay in his palm, glowing faintly in rhythm with his ember. The river's current mirrored the steady beat of his breath. He closed his eyes, sinking into cultivation.
The ember warmed, then expanded. It filled not only his chest but his limbs, his breath, even the space around him. He felt the ground beneath—cool stone, hidden roots, the faint pulse of water weaving through soil. He felt the fire of campflames, the restless stir of wind tugging at grass. For a moment, it was as though the world itself was breathing with him.
Then came the vision.
The hall of embers rose again in his mind's eye, larger now. Pillars etched with runes glowed brighter. Where before only a few disciples had sat, now dozens filled the rows, their embers flickering like stars. But outside the hall pressed shadows—shapes cloaked in lotus sigils, eyes like cold knives. They hammered at the walls, and cracks began to spread.
The embers inside wavered. Some flared wildly, panicked. Others guttered, nearly extinguished. His own ember surged, rising like a pillar of flame, steady but alone. Then, one by one, the others leaned toward his light, drawing strength, steadying. The cracks sealed, the hall held.
When Zhen's eyes opened, the shard burned hot in his palm. A thin sheen of sweat coated his brow. Yet his breath remained calm, as though anchored in stone.
Dalan was watching from across the fire. "Your visions grow stronger, boy. I've seen men reach into madness chasing sights like that. But you sit as steady as if you were carving wood."
"They are not madness," Zhen said quietly. "They are paths yet to come."
---
Two nights later, the caravan reached a crossroads village. Word had preceded them. Farmers crowded the square, craning necks to glimpse the "ember boy." Some bowed reverently, thrusting out baskets of grain or bundles of herbs in offering. Others shouted curses, calling him cursed, a danger that would bring sect blades upon their homes.
The noise rose until the village elder hobbled forward, leaning heavily on his staff. His face was lined like cracked earth, but his voice carried sharp as steel. "Enough. This youth is marked by the Sect, but he is also flesh and blood. He defended travelers when raiders struck. He refused chains. Judge as you wish, but remember: fear feeds Heaven more than reverence."
The crowd stilled. Some muttered in discontent, but none dared defy the elder openly.
Zhen inclined his head respectfully. "Your words are heavy, honored elder. I ask nothing of your people. My path is mine alone."
The elder studied him for a long moment. "Perhaps. But the path of one ember can set fire to forests, boy. Walk carefully, lest the flame devour more than it warms."
That night, as the caravan prepared to leave, Dalan murmured, "See? Even the old ones feel it. Your ember's already more than your own."
Zhen looked up at the sky. The lotus-shaped cloud still hung above, faint but unbroken. He exhaled slowly. "Then let it be tested."
Dawn was a thin smear of light when the caravan crested the low ridge. Shadows clung to the hollows below the road—more than the usual pools of morning shade. Dalan slowed the lead wagon and squinted toward the tree line. "We're being followed," he said, voice low and flat.
Zhen walked forward without hurry, staff in hand. The road narrowed, flanked by thickets and the occasional leaning pine. He felt, more than saw, the weight of eyes turned toward them. Not the curious gaze of villagers, but something colder—trained, patient. Scouts.
"Two riders," whispered a guard from the rear. "Keeping distance. Watching." He swallowed hard. "Not raiders. Hired hounds, I think. Sect-affiliated."
The caravan tightened its formation without a word. Sentries rode flanking routes, horses low to the ground, eyes sharp. Merchants pulled canvas covers over crates, faces paling. The traders had chosen to stand with Zhen, but standing with a marked man did not erase the hunger of guilds and sects for advantage.
By noon they reached a farming hamlet where children chased chickens and women worked linen at wells. The villagers paused when they saw the caravan. Mothers pulled their children in close; even the dogs lowered their heads. Whispers snaked through the crowd: The Cloud Lotus mark rides with them. The hunters will come tonight.
At the square they met the innkeeper—an angular man whose handshake felt like a trap. He bowed with careful smile and offered the usual coin-for-boarding terms. But his eyes lingered on Zhen with something like calculation. "You are welcome to lodge and eat," he said. "But understand, sir, large houses and empty pockets leave little mercy in the world."
The caravan accepted the offer warily. That night the tavern smelled of boiled cabbage and spilled liquor. Conversation stalled under the shadow of the mark. A low murmur made it clear: someone in the night would try to find what coin might buy information.
When darkness thickened, three figures cloaked in grey slipped through the lane behind the inn. Their movements were silent, practiced. One tossed a glinting coin to a drunken tavern hand—enough to loosen lips and tongues. Another slipped to the outer wall, listening for the caravan's patterns. The third moved like water through the shadows, seeking a vantage.
Zhen watched them from the doorway of his wagon, Hua's shard warm in his hand. He did not move to stop them; he let them act and observed. Their approach felt like a test. If a man moves to stab a sleeping child, that is one thing. If he seeks to unmask a man marked by Heaven for greed or fear, that is another.
The grey-cloaked hunters found their informant easily. A pair of small-time smugglers and a tavern hand, eager for coin, pointed them to the caravan's layout and the shifts of the guards. The hunters smiled without mirth and melted back into the night, pockets jingling with the coin of betrayal.
Dawn found the caravan shaken but intact. A cart's latch had been tampered with, a crate pry-marked and emptied of a small box of herbs, and a messenger's pouch—containing a worn ledger of trade routes—was missing. The thieves had chosen quick gains over a full assault. They wanted information; they wanted advantage.
Dalan's jaw clenched as he examined the damage. "A warning," he said. "They test before they strike. They measure where ease lies." His eyes met Zhen's. "They'll come bolder next time."
A week of travel blurred into a pattern of caution. Sentries rode with keener eyes; camps were arranged tighter; the caravan master hired two extra hands who proved to be nothing more than watchful dogs for a price. Word of the attempted theft leaked ahead of them. Hunters who preferred silence to sword began to stalk roads and taverns, asking about the marked youth in low voices and exchanging silver for maps.
When they reached the next market town—a place known for its weavers and a small temple—the square hummed with a tension unlike the others. Traders pointed fingers, and a children's chorus chanted the embers' rhyme, but the laughter was brittle. This town had learned to fear long shadows.
The temple's minor priest, a man with a soft belly and a brittle temper, stepped forward with theatrics, calling for a blessing. "The gods tremble at signs," he proclaimed, voice shaking but loud. "This mark is a talon upon the world. Offerings must be paid to ask mercy." He thrust out a bowl as villagers scurried to place coins.
Zhen approached the steps of the temple and knelt without pomp. He did not bow to the priest's theatrics. His posture was simple—respectful for the dead, insolent to those who would turn fear into coin. "I do not ask Heaven for favor through gifts," he said. "I ask only to walk without harm upon the roads."
A murmur raced through the crowd. The priest's face flushed with a mix of anger and opportunistic hurt. "Do you deny Heaven's will? Such insolence invites calamity."
A pair of cloaked figures watched from an alley, their faces half-hidden beneath hoods. They marked Zhen, murmuring to one another. "This one…" whispered the taller. "He gathers people like sparks. Useful if bent."
The taller stepped away and sent a note—small, folded with a black knot—down the lane. It traveled to hands that liked to set bounties and to guild scribes who kept ledgers of favors owed. The net widened.
Zhen felt the pull in the shard like a thread tugged taut. He closed his eyes and breathed slow, drawing the ember inward. The vision came again—embers in halls, the tree of fire, the pressure from above. This time the vision added faces: faces obscured but intent, eyes glinting with calculation rather than fury. These were not simple hunters; they were contractors of fate, men who used other men to fold the world to their will.
When he opened his eyes, he met Dalan's steady look. "They came to buy you," the old guard said quietly. "Now they send men who will pay others to spill where we sleep, who take ledgers and sell routes. It is a war of coin and whispers, not just steel."
Zhen nodded. "Then we give them fewer whispers and tighter words." He rose, staff in hand. "We travel at first light. Keep the routes irregular. Post scouts in pairs. Trust less, watch more."
The caravan moved before dawn the next day, leaving behind the murmured prayers and the temple's bowl of coins. The road ahead had become a chessboard where every move might be observed. Zhen watched the horizon, the ember a quiet drum within him, and planned not only for blades but for the slow, cunning hands that used silver as a blade.
---