Dawn arrived cloaked in a practical silence. There were no profound lessons, no meditations on stillness. Lao moved with a quiet, efficient purpose, checking the edge of a heavy wood-splitting axe and coiling a length of sturdy rope. The gentle craftsman was gone, replaced by a man preparing for a different kind of work. The transformation was subtle but complete, and it sent a fresh chill down Li's spine.
"You will be the bait," Lao stated, his tone matter-of-fact as he handed Li a waterskin. There was no cruelty in his words, only the simple logic of a trap. "You will walk the game trail, downstream from here. Make noise. Be seen. Let your fear be a scent on the wind."
Li's mouth went dry. The memory of the soldier's helmeted gaze, the feel of the shale in his hand, the gurgling scream—it all flooded back, threatening to overwhelm the fragile stillness he had cultivated the day before. He was to offer himself up, a lamb to the wolf.
"And you?" Mei asked, her voice tight with anxiety. She stood close to Li, her arms crossed as if against a cold wind.
"I will be the net," Lao replied, slinging the rope over his shoulder. "I will move through the trees. He will not see me, nor hear me. When he moves to take the bait, I will take him."
The plan was terrifying in its simplicity. It relied entirely on Lao's skill and Li's nerve. One misstep, one moment of faltering courage from Li, and the wolf would take the lamb.
"What if…" Li began, but the question died in his throat. What if you're not fast enough? What if he kills me before you can stop him? They were the questions of a boy, and he had chosen to leave that boy behind.
Lao seemed to understand. He placed a heavy, calloused hand on Li's shoulder. The grip was firm, grounding. "You have faced him twice. You know the look of him, the sound of him. You know the shape of your own fear. Use it. Do not let it use you. Your job is not to fight. It is to be seen, and to lead him to the clearing of the lightning-struck oak. Do you remember it?"
Li nodded. They had passed it yesterday—a small, open space dominated by the massive, splintered corpse of a great tree, its trunk blackened and rent by some ancient storm. It was a place of death, a fitting stage.
"Good." Lao released his shoulder. "Mei, you will stay here. You will tend the fire and listen. If you hear the signal—three sharp knocks on wood—you will douse the flames and hide in the root cellar." He gestured to a cleverly concealed hatch near his lean-to. "You are the keeper of the hearth. It is no small task."
Mei nodded, her jaw set, accepting her role in the hunt.
And so, they set out. Lao melted into the forest with an unnerving silence, becoming one with the shadows and the dappled light. One moment he was there, the next, he was simply gone.
Li was alone.
He walked, his feet crunching deliberately on dry leaves, his breath loud in his own ears. He tried to project the vulnerability of a lost, weary boy, but every nerve was screaming, every sense stretched to its limit. The forest, which had begun to feel like a refuge, was once again a lattice of a thousand hiding places. He felt a thousand unseen eyes upon him.
He forced himself to hum a tuneless, shaky melody, another layer of sound to draw attention. He stumbled occasionally, making a show of his weakness. He was a performance of prey, and the act was its own unique torture.
He reached the clearing of the lightning-struck oak. The shattered giant stood as a grim sentinel, its jagged points clawing at the sky. The air felt different here, charged with old violence. This was the place.
He stood in the center, his back to the blackened trunk, and waited. The minutes stretched, each one an eternity. The only sound was the frantic beating of his own heart. Had the soldier given up? Had he taken a different path? Or was he already here, watching, savoring the moment?
A twig snapped at the edge of the clearing.
Li's blood turned to ice. He didn't need to turn. He could feel the presence, a familiar, oppressive weight that sucked the warmth from the air.
"Well, well."
The voice was a gravelly rumble, laced with a venomous satisfaction. It was the same soldier from the mist, the one whose partner Li had killed. He stepped out from the tree line, his scaled armor seeming to absorb the morning light. His helmet was off, slung at his belt, revealing a face etched with hard lines and a cruel, triumphant smile. One of his arms was bound tightly against his chest with a sling made from a torn cloak—an injury from the avalanche on the high pass.
"The little rabbit finally tires of the chase," the soldier said, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. He drew his sword, the steel whispering a deadly promise as it left its scabbard. "Where is the girl? And the artifact? Speak, and I will make your end quick."
Li's fear was a living thing, coiling in his gut, threatening to paralyze him. He could smell the man now—sweat, leather, and the faint, metallic scent of old blood. This was the reality, not a memory. This was death, walking towards him.
Find the center. The lesson was a flickering candle in a hurricane. He couldn't find stillness. But he could find purpose.
He met the soldier's gaze, and instead of the terror the man expected, he saw a cold, grim resolve.
"The artifact is safe," Li said, his voice surprisingly steady. "And you will never touch it."
The soldier's smile widened, a predator amused by its prey's defiance. "Brave words for a boy about to die." He took another step, now only ten paces away. "I will enjoy this."
He lunged.
It was not the contemptuous grab of before. This was a killing thrust, aimed straight for Li's heart. The world narrowed to the point of the gleaming sword.
Li did not try to dodge. He had been told not to fight.
He stood his ground.
At the last possible second, a shadow detached itself from the deeper shadow of the lightning-struck oak.
Lao moved with a speed that defied his years. He did not cry out. He did not announce his presence. He simply was there, his body flowing between Li and the soldier. The heavy wood-splitting axe in his hands was not a weapon of finesse, but of brutal, overwhelming force.
He did not block the sword. He shattered it.
The axe head met the blade with a deafening clang of sheared metal. The soldier's sword, a fine piece of Azure Cloud steel, snapped a hand's breadth from the hilt. The force of the blow sent a violent shock up the soldier's arm, and he cried out, stumbling back, his eyes wide with shock and pain, clutching his numbed hand.
He stared, dumbfounded, at the broken stub of his weapon, then at the silent, implacable man who now stood between him and his quarry.
Lao did not advance. He simply stood, the notched axe head resting on the ground, his posture relaxed but unyielding. His river-stone eyes held no anger, only a profound, final authority.
"The hunt is over," Lao said, his voice low but carrying through the clearing like a judge's decree. "You are outmatched, and you are wounded. Drop your broken toy and leave this valley. Tell your Dragon Master that the Heart of the Mountain is under new protection."
The soldier's face contorted with rage and humiliation. He was a warrior of the Azure Cloud, shamed by a woodsman, his weapon broken by a tool. He looked from Lao to Li, his eyes burning with hatred. For a moment, Li thought he would attack anyway, would throw his life away in a final, futile act of pride.
But then, the fight seemed to drain out of him. The reality of his broken sword, his injured arm, and the unnerving power of the man before him was a cold dose of truth. He was not a hunter here. He was the prey.
With a guttural curse, he threw the broken sword hilt to the ground. He spat in the dirt, his eyes locking with Li's one last time, a promise of future vengeance shining in their depths.
Then, he turned and fled, crashing back into the forest, his retreat the sound of a broken predator.
Li stood, trembling, the adrenaline draining from his body so fast he felt lightheaded. He looked at Lao, who was already inspecting the notch in his axe head with a critical eye.
"He will be back," Li whispered. "With others."
Lao nodded, unconcerned. "Of course. But now he carries a story of his failure. And you…" He looked up at Li, a glint of something akin to pride in his eyes. "…you have learned that a hunter can stand his ground. You have faced your fear and not run. That is a different kind of strength."
He clapped a hand on Li's back, a solid, reassuring weight. "Come. Let us go home. Mei will be worried."
As they walked back, Li realized the cold knot of dread in his stomach was gone. In its place was a new, hard-won confidence. He had been the bait, and he had not been eaten. The hunt had changed forever.