After killing Lian, Ming hid inside a hollow tree deep within Monster Valley. Few dared to enter this cursed place — the name alone was enough to keep people away. The trees here were ancient and monstrous, their roots twisting like veins through the black earth. No one would ever imagine a man hiding inside a tree trunk.
It was cramped and suffocating. Sharp thorns dug into his skin, leaving small cuts all over his body. But pain didn't matter — it was still better than dying.
Ming took a few shaky breaths and shoved a handful of wild fruit into his mouth, trying to calm himself. He'd been lucky — if Lian had been more alert, or if the poison hadn't worked, Ming would have been the corpse instead.
A cold, sick smile crept across his face — a smile that didn't feel human. For a brief, horrifying moment, he realized he had enjoyed it.
He froze. His hands gripped his head tightly, nails digging into his scalp.
"I must be crazy… to enjoy killing," he muttered under his breath.
But then, as if summoned from the dark corners of his mind, memories flooded back — his family's screams, the Emperor's cruel smile, the humiliation they had suffered before death.
The tremor in his voice vanished. His expression hardened into something colder, crueler.
"No," he whispered. "They deserved it."
But now, a new problem clawed at his mind — how to get rid of his pursuers. The General and that other man… they wouldn't give up easily. And Ming knew they never traveled alone.
"What should I do?" he muttered, clutching his hair.
Then, suddenly, a memory flickered. He remembered something — the soldiers had refused to go deeper into a certain area, their faces uneasy. Even the General had ordered them to stay away from that place.
That meant only one thing.
"There's something out there… something even they fear."
"If I go there… they might leave me alone," Ming thought, his eyes narrowing. "And if they come after me, I'll let them deal with whatever danger waits there."
A bitter smile crossed his face. "At least if I die… I'll drag a few of them down with me."
"But there's a problem," Ming muttered to himself. "If I want to reach that place… I'll have to pass through their camp first. What should I do?"
After thinking for some time, Ming finally made up his mind. At night, he would cross through their camp and head toward that dangerous place. It was the only way to shake off there pursuers.
He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the choice settle in his chest. "If luck's still with me," he whispered, "I might live to see another sunrise."
Ming waited until midnight. The forest was silent, the moon hidden behind thick clouds. Then, without another thought, he began running — silently, swiftly — from his hiding spot toward the dangerous place.
Halfway there, he suddenly froze. Voices.
They were faint but getting closer. Soldiers.
His heart pounded. He quickly dropped to the ground and crawled into a thick bush, pressing his body low against the dirt. The sound of boots and metal grew louder as shadows passed nearby.
He held his breath, praying they wouldn't notice the trembling leaves above his head.
While walking past, two soldiers talked in low voices.
"Why are we even searching at night?" one muttered. "If we'd done this during the day, we would've found him more easily."
The other gave a tired sigh.
"Do you really think that boy's still alive? I mean… what if the same thing that happened to Ailinsec happened to him too?"
"I don't know," the first replied, voice shaking a little. "But seeing that body… that was horrifying."
"Yeah," the other whispered. "Just remembering it makes my body tremble. And you know what the General thinks? He believes that boy— what's his name again? Ming?— he did it."
"General's getting old," the first soldier said with a nervous laugh. "I think he's taking it too seriously. Honestly, I think it was some kind of monster. Or maybe… a cannibal."
They didn't know it, but just a few steps away, hidden in the thick bushes, Ming heard every word.
Ming frowned in the darkness.
"So… they think I didn't do it," he thought. "But the General—how did he become so sure that I killed him? Whatever… I just need to get out of here."
He began to crawl slowly, trying to find a safer route away from the soldiers. But as he moved, his hand pressed too hard against a bush — crack! A dry branch snapped.
The sound was small, but in the silence of the night, it was enough.
Both soldiers instantly turned, hands flying to their swords. Their eyes darted through the shadows, tense and alert.
"Who's there? come out now if you don't what to die." one of them shouted.
Ming froze, heart pounding in his chest. He didn't even dare to breathe.
Slowly, Ming rose to his feet, hands lifted in the air. His face was pale, eyes wide with a mix of fear and exhaustion.
"Good… you found me," he said, his voice trembling just enough to sound convincing. "There's a monster… it's been following me. Please—help me!"
Both soldiers stiffened. Their torches flickered over Ming's face, and in an instant, they recognized him.
"It's him," one whispered, tightening his grip on his sword.
But neither lowered their guard. The fear in Ming's voice didn't fool them completely — something about his calm eyes didn't match the panic in his tone.
Ming took a slow step forward, hands still raised. The soldiers tightened their grips on their swords, eyes never leaving him.
"Stop right there!" one of them barked. "Keep your hands where I can see them. Turn your back toward us and walk slowly!"
Ming hesitated, then nodded shakily. He slowly turned his back to them and began to move as ordered.
Ming's hand slipped inside his cloak and closed around the short sword hidden there. Night swallowed the forest; the soldiers couldn't see the blade, but the danger was real — there were two of them. If he struck one, the other would cut him down in an instant.
He forced himself to move deliberately, slowing his breathing so his heart didn't give him away. Every second stretched tight as bowstring; a hundred possibilities flickered through his mind in a single breath. Strike now and maybe he'd kill one — but the other would finish him. Try to run and they'd pursue, pinning him down. Be captured and he would either die or be dragged back into slavery.
Time had never felt so precious. Ming weighed each awful option with cold focus, feeling the weight of the short sword in his palm and the cold bite of the night around him. He could not afford a mistake.
Then Ming's expression hardened — the fear vanished, replaced by grim resolve. He had made his decision.
As he stepped closer, the soldiers relaxed just a little, believing he was surrendering. But in the next heartbeat, Ming spun around with blinding speed.
The short sword flashed in the moonlight — a single, precise thrust. The blade sank deep into the nearest soldier's chest, straight through the heart.
There was no hesitation. No mercy.
The soldier gasped, eyes wide in shock, before collapsing soundlessly to the ground.
He thought, eyes cold as steel. Last kill had taught him something. If you wanted to end a life instantly, you struck for the vital points — the heart, the neck — the places that didn't forgive mistakes. He'd learned that lesson the hard way, and he would not fail again.
The surviving soldier saw what happened and roared in rage, swinging his sword toward Ming. But before the blade could land cleanly, a sudden flutter of wings filled the air.
A black crow swooped down from the trees, its claws raking across the soldier's face. The man screamed and staggered back, slashing wildly. Even so, his sword still caught Ming's hand — the cut was deep, splitting skin and flesh until the bone showed white in the moonlight.
Pain burned through him, but it also gave Ming his chance. He tore his sword free from the first man's chest and, in one brutal motion, thrust it into the second soldier's neck. Blood sprayed in the dark, and the man fell without a sound.
Ming stood there, panting, blood dripping from his wounded hand. But then he saw movement — the first soldier, the one he had stabbed through the heart, was still alive. Gasping, the man raised a signal flare and fired it into the night sky.
A streak of red light burst above the trees.
From the distance came shouts — soldiers, the General, and even Soho's group rushing toward the signal. Ming's expression twisted with fury.
The dying soldier looked up at him, blood spilling from his mouth, a faint smile still frozen on his face.
"You…" Ming hissed, rage boiling over.
He drove his sword into the man's heart again — once, twice — but the smile never left the soldier's lips. Even in death, it mocked him.