Zhou Fan recovered faster than he should have.
Li Chen noticed it on the third day after their meeting. The cultivator's breathing had steadied, the pallor of his face fading. The spiritual aura clinging to him, once flickering and weak, now pulsed with a restrained rhythm.
Too restrained.
Li Chen said nothing.
They traveled together through the lower slopes of the mountains, keeping to animal paths and avoiding open terrain. Zhou Fan walked with the ease of someone accustomed to command, though he still leaned occasionally on a branch carved into a crude staff. When he spoke of cultivation, his tone was casual, almost dismissive, as if imparting knowledge to Li Chen required no effort at all.
"Qi Condensation has fifteen levels," Zhou Fan said as they rested near a stream. "Most mortals die before reaching the third. Talent matters. Resources matter more."
"And mercy?" Li Chen asked.
Zhou Fan smiled faintly. "Mercy is a luxury for those with backing."
Li Chen absorbed every word, committing them to memory. He practiced breathing techniques at night, drawing Qi inward in slow, painful trickles. Each attempt left his meridians burning, his body drenched in sweat. Progress was glacial but real.
By the seventh night, he could sustain the flow for several breaths.
Zhou Fan watched him with an expression Li Chen could not read.
On the eighth night, Zhou Fan made his move.
They had camped beside a ravine where mist coiled upward like pale snakes. The moon hung low, half-obscured by cloud. Li Chen sat cross-legged, eyes closed, focusing inward.
A killing intent brushed his spine.
He moved without thinking.
Li Chen twisted sideways as Zhou Fan's hand shot forward, fingers glowing faintly with condensed Qi. The strike grazed Li Chen's shoulder, tearing flesh and spinning him into the dirt.
Pain flared white-hot.
"You noticed?" Zhou Fan said, surprise flickering across his face before cold calculation replaced it. "Pity. You were almost useful."
Li Chen rolled to his feet, blade in hand.
"You recovered," Li Chen said evenly.
Zhou Fan laughed softly. "And you trusted me. A mortal mistake."
The air around Zhou Fan distorted as he gathered Qi. The pressure bore down on Li Chen like an invisible weight, crushing his chest, forcing his knees toward the ground.
So this is true power, Li Chen thought.
He did not beg.
Instead, he did the only thing he could.
He severed.
Li Chen focused inward not on drawing Qi, but on pushing it outward, violently, recklessly. The ember flared, tearing through his meridians like broken glass. Blood filled his mouth.
At the same time, he hurled his blade.
Not at Zhou Fan.
At the ravine's edge.
The blade struck a brittle rock formation Li Chen had noticed earlier, shattering it. The ground beneath Zhou Fan's feet gave way with a deafening crack.
Zhou Fan's eyes widened. "You!"
The cultivator fell.
Li Chen staggered forward, ignoring the agony screaming through his body, and seized a fallen stone. He peered over the edge.
Mist churned below.
A body struck rock far beneath with a sickening sound.
Silence followed.
Li Chen collapsed to his knees.
He retched blood onto the ground, hands shaking uncontrollably. His meridians felt torn, shredded beyond repair. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision.
So this is the price, he thought.
But as consciousness began to slip, something unexpected happened.
The ember within him stabilized.
The pain dulled.
Warmth spread slow, steady, resolute.
Li Chen gasped, eyes snapping open.
Qi flowed.
Not much. But enough.
He sat there for a long time, staring into the ravine.
He did not feel triumph.
Only confirmation.
He searched Zhou Fan's abandoned pack at dawn. Inside, he found a tattered manual, its pages stained with blood.
Iron River Breathing Art — Qi Condensation, Levels 1–6
Li Chen closed his eyes.
The heavens had tried to kill him.
A cultivator had tried to kill him.
Both had failed.
He rose, clutching the manual, and turned toward the deeper mountains where sects ruled, and Heaven's gaze grew heavier.
His first betrayal was complete.
And it would not be his last.