"I'll trade you one fire for one bag of salt," the man continued.
Ying looked to Allen. Salt meant survival, but there was only one fireseed. Allen's answer was brief."Leave."
The man chuckled. "You're not Fire-chasers, yet you talk like kings. Fine, another offer—tell me your direction when you leave. North or south. That's all I need."
Allen's voice was low, steady."If you're human, wait for daylight. If you're not, take three steps and die in the wind."
Silence followed. Then something rolled into view—a small pouch of salt, stopping just outside the line. The man's tone was light:"An advance payment. At dawn, I'll share half the route you came from. You people don't live by salt anyway."
Ying shook her head. Allen didn't move. He knew better than to trust kindness; Fire-chasers loved to imitate the living. He kicked the pouch aside."Leave."
The quiet lasted barely a moment.A thin metal rod slid through the mist, its tip wrapped in gauze—a cold-flame head. Not bright, but deadly enough to draw heat. Allen threw himself forward, bracing on his left arm, pressing the fire pouch hard into his chest. Ying dropped the crowbar across the rod, twisting sharply. The tip veered three inches off course; the suction turned sideways.
The device drank instead from the beasts' heat.Snarling, one of them lunged at the rod's base. A curse erupted outside; the man yanked the pole back. Allen thickened the inner salt edge into a curved white arc."Second pattern," he murmured.
Ying switched hands, stabbing vertically with the needle—to wound, not to kill.
The next attack came heavier. Two beasts at once. One feinted high while the other crashed low into the inner rim. Allen stepped half a pace forward, pushing the salt an extra palm's length. The creature's paw landed squarely in it; flesh hissed, curling away. Ying seized the moment, hooked upward, striking bone with a dull crack. The beast recoiled, limping. The first turned on her; Allen drew his blade in a horizontal sweep. Metal shrieked against grit. The beast stumbled, split-pawed. Its blood splattered inside the threshold—but the salt absorbed it cleanly, sealing the scent.
For a heartbeat, there was only breathing.Allen drove the dagger back into the ground, pulse steady. He waited. The enemy would shift tactics again.
Sure enough, the rod returned—this time ending in a hook. It slid along the floor, probing for cloth. When it struck wood, a small click echoed. Allen flicked his wrist; the needle lifted a ridge of salt, blocking the hook's path. The man cursed closer now, laughing between words. He was enjoying the hunt.
Then the sky dropped.The air itself sank lower, the wind pressing like a weight. Nightfall compression.
Allen's eyes narrowed. This was the moment that killed most wanderers—the storm of mist that poured downward like water, dissolving weak salt. He pushed the driest layer of his pouch forward, reinforcing the inner edge. Ying anchored three more pins, hands trembling from strain. The beasts surged together, slamming the door seven times. Each impact numbed his bones. The fireseed whined faintly, wanting to burst upward. Allen clenched his jaw and forced it still until the sound faded.
Then, all at once, the pounding stopped—replaced by a single whistle.Cold ran down his spine. Only men whistled. Someone was commanding them.
More dragging outside, the scrape of heavy objects on stone. Two minutes later came the sickly sweetness of blood, thick and fruity, wafting in. Bait blood. They were trying to melt the barrier.
Allen tore the pouch open, exposing a thread of light, and hurled the last handful of dry salt outward. The grains exploded mid-air, scattering like white ash. The stench stopped at the line, blocked completely.
The fourth wave came in chaos.Driven mad by the scent, the beasts trampled each other, revealing their formation. Allen caught the pattern immediately. "Hold right," he ordered. He took the left. They alternated their strikes—one side braced, the other yielded—absorbing the charge in rhythm. After five such exchanges, the doorway had moved only an inch, the salt unbroken.
The man outside hadn't expected resistance this precise. He stopped pulling the beasts, letting the space fall still. Danger thickened. Somewhere distant, air inhaled with a sharp hiss—the sound of a bone-staff drawing blue flame.
Allen didn't wait. He forced the fire deeper under his ribs, tightening the strap until he could hardly breathe."You'll die like this," Ying whispered.
"Later than you," he replied coldly—the same words he'd spoken the first night.
Blue light bloomed. Allen swung the dagger upward. The blade caught the glow and bent it back, reflecting a half-inch of light along the threshold. The salt blackened, popping with a dry crack. Ying, ignoring the burn blistering her hand, stitched the seam shut with trembling precision.
A second blast followed. Allen deflected it by stepping aside, letting the glare slide from steel to earth, into the cave wall. Sparks burst against the stone; the beasts recoiled, blinded.
A third flare came—and the wind shifted.The ravine turned the gust upon itself, curving it upward. The light missed the doorway, striking high above. Allen seized the chance, traced a false line of salt just beyond the real one. The beasts, lured by the sweet blood, rushed forward, trapping themselves in the fake arc.
"Fall back," he commanded. Ying obeyed instantly. They retreated one step, leaving a narrow kill-lane three feet wide. The fourth surge of blue flame hit only empty dirt. The ground smoked; the creatures yelped and drew back.
Silence returned, sharp and sudden, like a cut rope.The man no longer waved his staff. His breathing stretched through the wind—steady, thoughtful, almost calm. Allen did not tremble. He pressed the dagger deeper into the ground. The strategy outside had failed. What came next would be patience or retreat.
Ying's hand steadied at last. She stitched the final seam. The salt line gleamed white, taut as a tendon, sealing the door once more.
The last wind before dawn was cruel and thin, slicing every inch of exposed skin. The shadow-beasts were the first to flee, unable to bear the cold. The man left a final whisper behind:"There's no road north."
Allen didn't answer.
Then, softer:"Your fire speaks."
Ying turned toward him instinctively. Allen only tightened his hold on the pouch. He would not let strange words take root in the night.
When the first gray light crept through the mist, he thickened the inner edge with one last layer of salt, sheathed his blade, and said simply:"Move."
They didn't bother collecting the pouch outside or covering their tracks. Every unnecessary act was a death wish. Ying rose slowly, pale and unsteady. Allen retied her bandages, ensuring the blood wouldn't leak again. They withdrew through the tunnel's curve, climbed the cliff, and followed the northern shadow.
After less than two hundred steps, Allen looked back. The ravine mouth lay clean—no blood, no salt, just a trail of light footprints, evenly spaced. Whoever that man was, he was patient. He had stamina. He was a hunter.
Allen pressed a grain of salt into a crack in the stone, hiding it deep."New rule," he said quietly. "Look to the sky, not the people. Even if the blue flame returns—never turn back."
Ying nodded, face drawn but eyes sharp. The first edge of sunlight cut through the fog, scraping it thin like skin from bone. They walked along the ridge toward the broken towers ahead, where the air smelled of rust and burnt flesh.
Allen didn't speak again. In his mind, he carved the night into three sentences:One, never step beyond the line.Two, keep the fire silent.Three, men are worse than monsters.
He fixed his gaze on the ruined horizon, where the next darkness waited to fall.