Li Yaochen woke choking.
Not on air—on the taste of blood and damp earth. His body jerked upright before his mind caught up, pain lancing through his leg hard enough to blur his vision. He bit down on a cry and pressed his forehead against the stone overhang, breathing in short, controlled bursts until the tremor passed.
Night still ruled the forest.
Cold crept in where exhaustion left gaps. His stomach twisted, empty and angry, the kind of hunger that no longer begged but accused. It reminded him of every day he had endured without enough food, every compromise he had sworn would be the last.
Hunger never forgot.
He checked his bindings. The cloth around his shoulder was stiff, darkened. Not bleeding freely anymore. Good. Infection would come later, like a patient creditor.
Li Yaochen forced himself to stand.
The forest had changed after dark. Sounds returned cautiously—distant insects, the scrape of something moving far away. He did not like that either. Silence meant danger, but sound meant proximity.
He moved before dawn could betray him.
The narrow path wound downward, stones slick with moss. Twice he slipped and caught himself just in time. The pressure in his chest shifted each time, not interfering, not assisting—only present, as if measuring how much strain his body could endure before it failed.
"Enjoying this?" he muttered under his breath.
No answer.
By morning, the forest thinned into scrubland. Low hills rose ahead, scarred with old quarry marks and half-collapsed tunnels. Li Yaochen recognized the place from rumor alone.
The Outer Fringe Markets.
Not a city. Not even a settlement. Just a sprawl of temporary stalls, scavengers, wanderers, and those who survived by standing between sect law and sect neglect. Iron River influence faded here, replaced by something worse—indifference sharpened by opportunity.
He slowed his approach.
People noticed weakness the way beasts smelled blood.
As he crested the final rise, voices reached him—haggling, laughter, an argument turning sharp. Smoke curled into the sky from cooking fires that made his stomach cramp painfully.
Food.
He clenched his jaw and kept moving.
The first eyes found him immediately.
A pair of men leaning against a broken cart straightened when they saw him. Their gazes flicked over his injuries, his torn clothes, his limp. One smiled.
Not kindly.
Li Yaochen altered his path without hesitation, angling toward a cluster of stalls where movement was thickest. Blending was safer than hiding.
He passed a butcher hacking at monster flesh, the air heavy with iron and rot. An old woman sold dried roots from a stained cloth, her eyes sharp as awls. A pair of youths practiced low-level techniques openly, sparks of crude spiritual energy snapping around their hands.
Everywhere, power was displayed casually. Carelessly.
As if daring the world to object.
Li Yaochen stopped at a water barrel and knelt slowly, as if exhausted. He drank, keeping his movements deliberate, non-threatening. He let them see the weakness. Let them underestimate.
That was safer too.
"Oi."
The voice came from behind him.
Li Yaochen straightened just enough to look over his shoulder.
A man in patched robes stood there, arms crossed. His cultivation was shallow—barely above mortal—but his eyes were confident. The kind of confidence that came from knowing where authority stopped reaching.
"You bled on my ground," the man said. "That costs."
Li Yaochen glanced down. A single dark drop stained the dust near his foot.
"Didn't mean to," he said. "I'll move."
The man laughed. "That'll cost more."
Figures shifted nearby. Not overtly threatening—just enough to close off escape routes.
Li Yaochen felt the pressure in his chest tighten by a hair's breadth.
Not yet, he thought. Don't you dare.
He bowed his head. "I don't have much."
The man leaned closer, eyes gleaming. "Then you'll give what you do."
Li Yaochen considered his options quickly. Fighting would be suicide. Running would draw pursuit. Pleading invited cruelty.
So he chose something else.
He coughed.
Hard.
Blood flecked his lips. He swayed, gripping the barrel to keep from falling.
"I'm dying," he said hoarsely. "Iron River blade. If you touch me, their trackers might notice."
The man hesitated.
Just a fraction.
Li Yaochen pressed the advantage mercilessly. "They don't care who they kill after. They'll blame you for hiding me."
Fear was universal currency.
The man's eyes darted around. The confidence cracked, replaced by calculation. Finally, he spat.
"Get out of my sight," he snapped. "And bleed somewhere else."
Li Yaochen did not thank him.
He bowed shallowly and moved on, heart hammering only once he was out of sight. His hands shook, but he kept them steady.
At the far edge of the market, he found work.
Hauling scrap from a collapsed tunnel. Dangerous, exhausting, poorly paid. Perfect.
By sunset, his arms burned and his vision swam, but he had earned a bowl of thin stew and a corner near a dying fire. He ate slowly, savoring every mouthful like a memory.
As night settled over the Fringe, Li Yaochen stared into the flames.
The pressure in his chest was still there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Hunger eased, but it did not disappear.
It never did.
And as Li Yaochen lay back against cold stone, one truth settled deeper than exhaustion:
This world did not reward strength alone.
It rewarded those who remembered what it meant to be weak—
And learned how to use it.