The silence of the clearing was a suffocating blanket. Yang Kai stayed frozen for a long time, his gaze fixed on the cooling corpse of the Shadow-Phase Lynx. His mind was a chaotic storm of abject terror and a single, desperate, ugly, and beautiful thought.
Capital.
He forced his trembling legs to move. Each step was an agony of indecision, his ears straining for any sound. He half-expected the Feng disciple to return with reinforcements, or for another, larger predator to be drawn by the coppery tang of blood that now hung heavy in the air. The forest was no longer just a place of shadows; it was a place of rules he did not understand, where death was a casual, silent transaction.
He reached the dead beast, his stolen kitchen knife feeling flimsy and useless in his hand. The lynx was larger up close, its fur a thick, luxurious grey that seemed to absorb the dim forest light. The Feng disciple's dagger was still lodged deep in its shoulder, a testament to the creature's ferocity.
His first task was the Meteoric Ironscales. He couldn't carry the entire lynx carcass back to the estate. It was too heavy, too conspicuous. He needed a sack, something to carry the valuable parts in. He went to the patch of Ironscales, his movements hurried and clumsy. He used the knife to pry the rust-colored, plate-like growths from the earth. They were surprisingly tough, and the dull blade scraped and slipped. He worked with a frantic energy, his eyes constantly scanning the surrounding darkness. He gathered a dozen of the ugly scales, their weight a small, solid comfort in his hands. He tore a large section of the coarse outer fabric from his borrowed laborer's robes and fashioned a makeshift bag.
He returned to the lynx, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm. He had never butchered an animal before. His life on Earth had been one of sterile supermarkets and pre-packaged meat. He took a deep breath, trying to recall the anatomical charts from Madam Xue's brother's journals, his mind forcing a cold, academic detachment over his churning stomach. This is not a fight. It is a task. A task that requires precision.
He knelt, his knees sinking into the damp, bloody leaves. He started with the pelt. His work was a clumsy, brutal affair. The knife was dull, his hands were unsure. The reality was nothing like the clean lines on the diagrams. It was a mess of sinew and stubbornly clinging flesh. He tore the skin in several places, ruining its value, but he managed to peel it away from the muscle.
Next, the claws. They were sharp as razors. He used the knife to carefully cut the tendons at the base of each one, his fingers growing slick and sticky with blood. He dropped them into his makeshift sack, the small clicks of them hitting the bottom a tiny, satisfying sound of progress.
Finally, the Beast Core. The journals said it was located near the heart. He took a guess, cutting into the creature's chest cavity. The hot, metallic stench of viscera and gore made him gag, and he had to turn his head away, his stomach churning violently. He forced himself to continue, his hands plunging into the warm, slick interior of the beast. He felt it. A small, hard, spherical object, no bigger than his thumb. He pulled it free. It was a milky, opaque crystal, pulsing with a faint, residual energy that made his palm tingle. A Spirit Grade Beast Core. His prize.
He had just finished, his body drenched in sweat and blood, when he heard it again.
Footsteps. Heavy and deliberate.
Feng Jie stumbled through the undergrowth, his leg a blazing monument of pain. Humiliation burned hotter than the wound. He, a proud disciple of the Feng Clan, at the second stage of the Stellar Foundation, had been sent fleeing by a common Shadow-Phase Lynx. He had even lost his dagger, a gift from his uncle.
He reached the small, fortified outpost the Feng Clan maintained at the edge of the forest. The guard on duty saw his state and helped him inside. The outpost was a simple, functional affair—a wooden palisade surrounding two squat buildings that smelled of oiled leather and medicinal herbs.
"What happened?" the guard asked, his eyes wide.
"A Shadow-Phase Lynx," Feng Jie snarled, collapsing onto a bench. "In the old grove by the creek. It's wounded, but it got me."
The guard captain, a grizzled veteran named Feng Tian, came over. He was a man whose face was a roadmap of old scars. He looked at the deep, parallel gashes on Feng Jie's thigh, his expression grim. "That's a lynx, all right," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You were lucky to get away. They don't usually hunt this close to the town's edge. Something must be pushing them down from the high ridges." He turned to another disciple. "Log it. And send Beard and Grinner to the grove to confirm. If that beast is still alive, I want it finished. We can't have it preying on the woodcutters."
Feng Jie gritted his teeth, the shame a bitter taste in his mouth. He had not only failed, but he had also created work and risk for others. His path to the inner circle had just gotten a little longer.
Panic, cold and absolute, seized Yang Kai. He grabbed his sack of beast parts and scrambled back behind the rotting log, his mind screaming. He was caught. He was a thief, covered in blood, with the proof of his crime in his hands.
Two figures emerged from the shadows. They were not Feng Clan disciples. They were dressed in the mismatched, worn-out leather of Dregs mercenaries. The leader was a burly, bearded man with a cruel glint in his eye. The other was a leaner, wiry man with a long, ugly scar down his cheek. They saw the butchered lynx, then their eyes scanned the clearing, landing directly on the log where he was hiding.
"Well, well," the bearded man chuckled, his voice a low, ugly rumble. "Looks like some other rat beat us to the meal."
The scarred man's eyes narrowed. "There," he said, pointing directly at Yang Kai's hiding spot.
They walked forward, their movements lazy and confident. They were hyenas who had just found a lone, terrified jackal. Yang Kai's mind went blank with terror. He was trapped. He couldn't run. He couldn't fight. They were cultivators, their bodies tempered by Star Force. He was a mortal boy with a dull knife.
The bearded man stood over him, a cruel smile on his face. "Come on out, little rat. Hand over the core and the pelt, and we might let you keep your own skin."
Yang Kai's hand trembled on the hilt of his knife. He thought of the Viper's Kiss, the two-fingered nerve strike. It was useless. He would be dead before he could even get close enough to try it. His mind raced, a chaotic storm of desperation. He had one last, desperate card to play. A name. A gamble.
He pushed himself to his feet, trying to keep his legs from shaking. He held up the bloody sack.
"This belongs to Xiong," he said, his voice a reedy, unbelievable squeak.
The two men froze. Their confident smiles faltered.
The bearded man's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Xiong? What would the boss of the Rat's Nest want with a pathetic little scrap like you?"
"I am running an errand for him," Yang Kai lied, his words gaining a desperate strength. "He sent me to gather ingredients. This beast attacked me. I was defending myself." He held up his blood-soaked hands. "He is expecting me back at the Silent Pavilion. If I do not return soon… he will come looking for me."
It was a blatant, transparent lie. But the name—Xiong—was a shield. It gave them pause.
Beard looked at the boy. He was pathetic. Scrawny. Covered in filth and blood. But the name was a problem. Xiong was a man who valued his reputation above all else. Stealing from him, or killing one of his errand boys, was bad for business. Was the risk worth it? A ruined pelt, some claws, and a single, low-grade Spirit Core? Maybe sixty jades, split two ways. Thirty jades to earn the wrath of the Rat's Nest King? The math didn't add up.
The scarred man, Grinner, seemed to come to the same conclusion. He took a step back. "He's not worth the trouble," he muttered.
Beard stared at Yang Kai for a long, hard moment, his eyes filled with a mixture of frustration and suspicion. Finally, he spat on the ground.
"Fine," he snarled. "Go on, then. Get out of here. But if we find out you're lying, little rat… we'll hunt you down and peel you like a grape."
They turned and stalked off into the darkness, disappearing into the forest.
Yang Kai stood there, his body trembling, his knees weak with relief. He had survived. Not through strength, not through skill, but through a lie. A name.
In the smoky, noisy depths of the Silent Pavilion, Xiong slammed a wooden tankard down on the table, silencing the argument between two of his men. "Enough," he rumbled. "The Feng Clan is moving more of their own guards to the West Gate. They're squeezing us. We need a new route for the Moon-Dew wine shipments."
Before his lieutenants could respond, the tavern door creaked open, and the two mercenaries, Beard and Grinner, trudged in. They looked angry and returned empty-handed. They ordered ale and sat in a corner, muttering to each other.
One of Xiong's men, a thin man named Crow, sidled up to the table. "Boss," he said quietly. "Those two just got back from the woods. I heard them talking. They found a kill, a Shadow-Phase Lynx, but they said some new kid had already claimed it."
Xiong grunted, uninterested. "They were too slow. So what?"
"That's the thing, boss," Crow continued, lowering his voice further. "They said the kid claimed he was working for you."
Xiong stopped, his tankard halfway to his lips. He slowly lowered it to the table. "For me?" His eyes narrowed. He ran his operations with a tight fist. He knew every runner, every thug, every merchant on his payroll. There was no "new kid."
"What did he look like?" Xiong asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
"Don't know, boss," Crow admitted. "They just said he was a scrawny little rat. But they backed off. Your name was enough to scare them away from a Spirit Core."
Xiong leaned back, a thoughtful, dangerous glint in his eye. Someone was using his name, his reputation, as a shield in his own backyard. It was a bold move. A suicidal move. Or… a very interesting one. Who in the Dregs had the nerve? And why? The gears of his cunning mind began to turn. This was a loose thread. And Xiong hated loose threads.
Yang Kai didn't wait. He clutched his bloody sack and fled, half-running, half-stumbling back the way he came, using the servant's disguise to once again slip through the city gates amidst the evening return of the laborers.
[Cycle of the Azure Emperor, Year 3473, 6th Moon, 2nd Day]