The clan remained a house of ghosts. For four days, the Patriarch and First Aunt were gone, and their absence was a palpable void. The estate ran on the frayed nerves of the Grand Elder and the loud, blustering commands of his father, Yang Zhan. Yang Kai's world had shrunk to the size of his desperate routine.
Each morning, in the crumbling western courtyard, his body learned the sharp, coiling language of the Silent Coil Scripture. His muscles, once soft and useless, were beginning to harden, etched with the memory of a pain that promised survival.
Each afternoon, in the dusty silence of his room, he devoured the words of Madam Xue's dead brother. The journals were a map to a world of impossible cures and legendary beasts, a path he could see but could not walk. The twenty Mid-Grade Star-Jades were a chasm between him and the first step. He had no skill to sell, no treasure to trade. He had only the knowledge he was stealing, piece by piece.
He stared at a line in the 'Flora of the Titan's Tooth' journal, his finger tracing the elegant script. It was the entry for the Meteoric Ironscales, the same one he had studied for days. The same one that had pushed him to this brink. The thought of entering the forest sent a wave of cold dread through him. It was a place of fangs and shadows, a place where things like him were not just weak; they were food.
I can't.
He looked at his own empty hands. He thought of the watery congee, of the pitying gift from his aunt, of the insurmountable debt he would need to pay Xiong.
I have to.
His plan was simple, born of the desperation of a cornered rat. He was a Young Master, a known face. He couldn't just walk out of the city gates. But a servant? A laborer? They were invisible.
He found what he needed in a forgotten storage shed near the servant's quarters: a set of rough, patched linen clothes, reeking of sweat and dirt, and a conical straw hat that had seen better days. He changed out of his own simple robes, the coarse fabric of the servant's clothes a strange, abrasive comfort against his skin. He looked at his faint reflection in a grimy puddle. A stranger looked back at him. A thin, dirty laborer, his eyes holding a haunted, desperate look that was all too common in the Dregs. It would have to do.
He moved through the pre-dawn gloom of the Yang Clan estate, a phantom in borrowed rags. The compound was a world of deep shadows and oppressive silence, broken only by the whisper of wind through the cracked pillars of the training ground. He used the Flowing Water Step, his movements silent on the cold flagstones, his body a low crouch as he slipped past the darkened windows of the main hall. This was the first true test of his new skills, not against an opponent, but against the sleeping dragon of his own clan.
Reaching the outer walls, he didn't dare approach the main gates. Instead, he made his way to a neglected section of the southern perimeter, where the estate bordered the chaotic maze of the Dregs. Here, the transition was stark.
The manicured, if decaying, grounds of the clan gave way to a muddy, refuse-strewn alley. He slipped through a gap in a hedge, leaving the world of his birth behind. The air immediately grew thicker, heavy with the smell of cheap wine, unwashed bodies, and despair.
He navigated the labyrinthine alleys, his straw hat pulled low. He was no longer a Young Master in disguise; he was just another shadow in a place full of them. He joined a small stream of other silent figures, their shoulders hunched against the morning chill, all flowing towards the West Gate.
Feng Bao stifled a yawn, leaning against the cold stone of the West Gate's watchtower. Dawn was breaking, painting the sky in pale shades of orange and grey. Below, the daily exodus began. A stream of humanity—laborers heading to the quarries, woodcutters with their axes, servants on market errands—flowed through the gate like a muddy river. It was a boring, thankless post, but his uncle was the guard captain, so he got the easy shifts.
His eyes scanned the crowd out of habit, his gaze lingering on the faces. He was looking for known troublemakers from the Dregs, or perhaps a rival Tie disciple trying to cause problems. He paid no mind to the hunched shoulders and downturned faces of the laborers. They were just part of the scenery, as invisible as the dirt on the road.
One figure, thin and wiry, caught his eye for a split second. The man's posture was too tense, his grip on the strap of his empty sack too tight. But then he shuffled forward, lost in the sea of patched clothes and straw hats. Feng Bao dismissed him. Just another desperate soul heading out for a day of back-breaking work. He let out another yawn and turned his attention to the pretty servant girl from the noodle shop.
Yang Kai's heart pounded against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat that he was sure the guards could hear. He kept his head down, his shoulders hunched, his steps short and shuffling, mimicking the weary gait of the men around him. He could feel the eyes of the Feng Clan guards at the gate sweeping over the crowd. He was a noble son of the Yang Clan, and he was walking amongst the lowest of the low, praying that his perceived weakness was the perfect camouflage.
The gate loomed, a massive structure of iron and stone. He passed through its shadow, his breath held tight in his chest. No one shouted. No one stopped him. He was through. He had done it. He was invisible.
The world outside the walls of Fallingstar Town opened up before him. The road, paved for the first mile, gave way to a wide, packed-earth track that cut through a patchwork of the clan's ancestral farmlands. To his right, the Feng Clan's fields were green and well-tended; to his left, the Yang Clan's were noticeably sparser, the soil less rich. Ahead, dominating the entire horizon, was the reason for all their struggle and all his hope: the Titan's Tooth Mountain Range.
It was not a single mountain, but a jagged, saw-toothed wall of stone that tore at the sky, its highest peaks perpetually wreathed in clouds. It looked like the jawbone of some long-dead, primordial god, a monument of grey, windswept rock and dark, ancient forests. The range radiated a palpable aura of danger and wild, untamed power. It was a prison wall and a treasure chest, all at once.
Once clear of the town's immediate vicinity, he broke away from the main road, slipping into the dense woods of the foothills. He pulled out the map from his uncle's journal and set off towards his destination. The Whispering Shadow Forest loomed before him, a solid wall of blackness under the rising sun. The air was thick with the hum of insects, the distant call of a strange bird, and the rustle of unseen things in the undergrowth. Every sound was a threat.
He found the grove after a tense half-hour that felt like a lifetime. It was a small, damp clearing. And there, pushing up from the dark, rich earth in a wide patch, was a cluster of ugly, overlapping scales. Meteoric Ironscales. He knelt, pulling a small sack from his robes, a fierce surge of triumph cutting through his fear. He was about to begin harvesting when he froze.
A twig snap. Too heavy for a squirrel. Too deliberate for a falling branch. He dropped flat to the ground, pressing his body into the damp leaves. He peered through a screen of ferns as a figure emerged from the trees. A young man in the leather armor of a Feng Clan hunter.
"He is not in his room, Mistress."
Madam Liu stopped applying the rouge to her lips, her hand freezing in mid-air. She met the nervous servant's eyes in the reflection of her bronze mirror. "What do you mean, he is not in his room? His breakfast has not been touched?"
"No, Mistress. The bed has not been slept in."
The brush clattered against the lacquered table. Madam Liu rose, her crimson silk robes swirling around her. A cold fire ignited in her amber eyes. Not in his room. First, a secret meeting with the Ice Queen of the Third House. Now, a disappearance.
"Find him," she commanded, her voice a low, dangerous whisper. "Quietly. Search every corner of this estate. I want to know where my son is."
The servant scurried away. Madam Liu walked to her window, her mind racing. The boy was making moves without her permission. Her son. He was slipping through her fingers, and the thought filled her with a terrifying, possessive rage.
From his hiding place in the damp, decaying leaves, Yang Kai watched the world hold its breath. The Feng disciple, who had stood with the easy arrogance of a predator just moments before, was now frozen, a statue of tense muscle and dawning fear. His hand was a white-knuckled claw on the hilt of his dagger. Every insect, every bird, every rustle had gone silent, smothered by a sudden, unnatural stillness that was more terrifying than any sound.
A blur of grey fur erupted from the undergrowth.
It was a cat, but larger than any Yang Kai had ever seen, its movements impossibly fluid and silent. A Shadow-Phase Lynx. Its silvery-grey fur seemed to drink the dim light of the clearing, and its eyes glowed with a faint, predatory luminescence. It didn't roar; it issued a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the very dirt beneath Yang Kai's cheek.
The Feng disciple, Feng Jie, finally broke his paralysis. A surge of bravado, or perhaps terror, stiffened his spine. "Impudent beast!" he snarled, his voice cracking slightly. A faint, shimmering aura of pale green wind-aspected Star Force enveloped his dagger, making the air around it seem to waver. "You dare bare your fangs at a disciple of the Feng Clan?"
He lunged forward, his movement a trained, if clumsy, rush. He thrust his dagger in a move that was clearly a practiced martial art, a "Slicing Gale Thrust" meant to be faster than a mortal eye could follow.
But the Lynx was not mortal. It was a spirit beast rank Yāoshòu with strength equal to stage 2 cultivator.
With a movement that defied logic, the beast's form seemed to flicker, to momentarily dissolve into a grey blur. It wasn't a teleport; it was a phase, a short, impossibly fast burst of motion. The shimmering dagger sliced through empty air where the beast's heart had been a split second before.
Before Feng Jie could even register his miss, the Lynx had reappeared at his side. Its claws, long and sharp as razors, extended with a soft shhkk sound that was more terrifying than any snarl. It didn't lunge for his throat. It was a patient hunter. It lunged for his leg.
Yang Kai watched, mesmerized by the brutal efficiency. He saw the disciple's eyes widen in shock. He heard the sickening sound of tearing leather and flesh. Feng Jie cried out, a high, sharp sound of pain and surprise, and stumbled back, his leg now a ruin of bloody gashes. His confident stance was gone, replaced by a panicked, limping retreat.
The Lynx landed silently, a single drop of blood on its whiskers. It didn't pounce again immediately. It stalked him, its movements a fluid, rolling dance of death, its glowing eyes never leaving the terrified face of the disciple.
It was enjoying the hunt. It was showing him how outclassed he was.
Feng Jie's face was pale with shock and pain. His arrogance had evaporated, leaving behind the raw, primal fear of a cornered herbivore. The shimmering Star Force around his dagger flickered and died as his concentration shattered. He was a cultivator, a member of the proud Feng Clan, and he was about to be gutted like a fish by a common Spirit Beast.
Desperate, he did the last thing a trained warrior should do. He threw his weapon.
It was a wild, panicked throw, an act of pure desperation, not skill. But it was enough. The dagger tumbled end over end through the air, and by sheer, dumb luck, the blade caught the lynx in the shoulder as it was coiling for its final pounce.
The beast let out a pained, furious hiss, a sound of fury and surprise. It stumbled, its fluid grace broken. The distraction was all the disciple needed. Abandoning his weapon, his pride, and any thought of treasure, he turned and fled, crashing through the undergrowth with a heavy, limping gait, his terrified whimpers trailing behind him until the forest swallowed him whole.
The silence returned, deeper and more profound than before.
The injured lynx stood for a moment, its flank heaving. It shook its head, trying to dislodge the dagger, but the blade was lodged deep in muscle and bone. It took a single, pained step, then another. A low, rattling growl echoed in its throat. Then, its legs gave out, and it collapsed onto the forest floor with a soft, final thud. It lay there for a moment, its luminous eyes staring at nothing. Then, the light faded from them, and it was still.
Yang Kai lay in the leaves, his body trembling so violently he could feel his teeth chattering. He had just witnessed the brutal, casual violence of this world, a life-or-death struggle that was over in less than ten breaths. He had seen a cultivator, a being he had thought of as untouchable, brought low and sent fleeing for his life.
Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up. He stared into the silent clearing. The Feng disciple was gone. The only things left were the patch of ugly Ironscales in the earth, and the fresh, cooling corpse of a Spirit Beast.
His mind, sharpened by desperation, raced through the economic realities he had learned from Xiong and the journals. A common Spirit Beast. Its pelt was valuable. Its claws could be sold. And if its Beast Core was intact... that was the real prize. He knew it wouldn't be enough. Not even close. The full carcass might fetch fifty, maybe sixty Low-Grade Star-Jades if he was lucky. A pittance compared to the mountain of two thousand he needed to pay Xiong.
But it was a start.
It was capital. Earned through fear and luck. And it was lying there in the dirt, waiting for someone with the courage to take it.
[Cycle of the Azure Emperor, Year 3473, 6th Moon, 2nd Day]