They found the stream by sound first.
A thin rush over stones, steady and indifferent, like the mountain's own breathing. Moonlight didn't reach it well under the pines, but the air was colder there and smelled clean enough to hurt.
Sun Jiao held up a fist.
The team stopped, panting quietly.
The injured runner swayed on his feet, eyes half-lidded, lips bluish. He was losing blood and warmth at the same time. His breath rattled like wet cloth.
Qin Sui crouched and dipped two fingers in the stream, then rubbed them together. "Cold," she whispered.
Ma Qiao muttered, "Cold is good."
Liang Zhi stared at the water like it was salvation. His legs were muddy from the ditch, his hands shaking.
Wuchen stepped to the bank and knelt, letting his sleeves soak. He scrubbed at his boot hems and pant legs hard, scraping mud and whatever sweet rot resin clung there. The water numbed his fingers quickly.
Sun Jiao didn't waste time. "Wash fast," he whispered. "Then move."
Ma Qiao limped into the stream and started scrubbing his shin where the hound claws had raked him. He hissed when cold water hit blood.
Qin Sui washed her boots and the lower shaft of her spear. She didn't look at the injured runner. Not yet.
Liang Zhi knelt beside Wuchen, frantic, scrubbing like he could erase fear.
The injured runner fell to his knees at the edge and tried to wash too, but his hands didn't obey well.
Sun Jiao watched him for a long breath, then spoke, voice flat. "If you can't walk, you tell us now."
The runner's lips trembled. "I… I can," he whispered. It wasn't true, but he needed it to be.
Sun Jiao nodded once, then looked at Wuchen. "You said we can't drop him," he whispered.
Wuchen kept scrubbing. "Not yet," he said.
Sun Jiao's eyes narrowed. "When, then?"
Wuchen's throat tightened. He didn't want to answer. Answers made commitments, and commitments got you killed.
But the team was waiting on a decision, and silence would be taken as weakness.
Wuchen said quietly, "When we can leave scent behind without leaving a living witness to blame us."
Ma Qiao's eyes flicked to him, sharp.
Qin Sui's mouth tightened.
Liang Zhi swallowed hard, face pale.
Sun Jiao held Wuchen's gaze for a moment, then nodded slightly. He understood the ugly logic. Leaving a man to beasts was one thing. Killing him was another. But leaving him alive and alone meant he could crawl back to the sect later and tell names.
Names were chains.
They washed until their hands were numb and their hems were heavy with water.
The sweet rot smell faded, not gone but thinner, broken by cold stream water and mud.
Sun Jiao stood. "Up," he whispered. "We move along the stream for a while. Water breaks scent."
They followed the stream downstream, keeping feet in shallow water where they could, wincing when stones cut through thin soles. It slowed them, but it also confused predators.
For a time, it worked.
No snuffling.
No claws.
Only water and breath.
Then the mountain reminded them it never gave gifts without taking.
A hiss of movement from the bank.
Not a beast.
A man.
An outer disciple stepped out from behind a pine, bow in hand, arrow nocked. His robe was wet like he'd been using the stream too. His eyes were wide and too alert.
Not from Team Twelve.
He saw them and froze.
Then his gaze slid to the injured runner, and his mouth tightened like he'd recognized him.
"You," the archer said softly, voice shaking with anger. "You ran from my team."
The injured runner's face went slack. He tried to speak and failed.
Sun Jiao's jaw clenched. He stepped forward slightly, saber still sheathed but his hand resting on the hilt.
"We're passing," Sun Jiao said quietly. "Let us pass."
The archer's eyes flicked to Sun Jiao, then to Wuchen, then to Qin Sui's spear. He swallowed, calculating. He wasn't a hero. He was angry and scared.
He lifted the bow a fraction. "My captain died," he said. "Because he pushed us into the ruin and then ran."
The injured runner shuddered.
Wuchen's stomach tightened. So the runner wasn't just a victim. He had been part of a team that fed itself to the ruin and then abandoned others.
The archer continued, voice cracking. "And he said you told him the direction," he whispered. His eyes slid to Wuchen. "A boy. A lying boy."
Wuchen felt cold spread through his chest.
So Sun Jiao's lie had already turned into rumor.
And the thin man had already planted blame.
Sun Jiao's voice stayed calm. "Lower your bow," he said.
The archer shook. "No," he said. "I'll take him back. I'll drag him to the others. He'll pay."
Qin Sui's spear lifted slightly.
Ma Qiao's knife hand tightened.
Liang Zhi whimpered, almost inaudible.
Wuchen didn't move.
He watched the archer's fingers.
Tight on string. Shaking.
A shaky shot in close distance could still kill.
Sun Jiao spoke again, colder. "If you shoot," he said, "you hit someone. Then beasts find blood. Then we all die."
The archer's eyes flicked to the dark trees as if hearing the word beasts made them real. His bow wavered.
Wuchen took one step forward, slow, palms open. "Senior Brother," he said softly, "if you take him, the thin man wins."
The archer's eyes narrowed. "Thin man?" he whispered.
Wuchen nodded slightly. "He marked us with scent resin," he said. "He wants bodies to chase his anger."
The archer's jaw clenched. "I don't care," he said. "I care my captain is dead."
Wuchen's voice stayed quiet. "Then kill him," he said. "But kill him fast and quiet. Not with arrows that bleed."
Silence punched the stream.
Liang Zhi made a tiny choking sound. Qin Sui's eyes sharpened. Ma Qiao stared at Wuchen like he had grown new teeth.
Sun Jiao didn't stop him.
Wuchen continued, "If you drag him," he said, "he screams. Beasts come. If you take him alive," he added, "he talks. Deacons punish. You become a witness and then a target."
The archer's breathing shook. He was being pushed toward a choice he didn't want to own.
The injured runner tried to crawl backward in the stream, hands slipping on stones. He made a wet, pleading noise.
The archer's eyes went hard.
He lowered his bow slightly, then drew a short knife from his belt.
Wuchen's chest tightened.
Qin Sui shifted, ready to stop him if needed.
But Sun Jiao didn't move.
The archer stepped into the stream, water splashing softly.
He grabbed the injured runner by the hair and yanked his head back.
The runner's eyes rolled, mouth opening.
The archer hesitated for a heartbeat.
In that heartbeat, Wuchen saw it: the archer didn't want revenge. He wanted his fear to have an ending.
Wuchen didn't look away.
He didn't offer comfort.
Comfort was for people who had choices.
The archer's knife moved.
A quick cut across the throat.
Blood spilled dark into cold water.
The runner's body jerked, then went limp, sliding sideways into the stream.
Liang Zhi gagged.
Ma Qiao's face went pale but steady.
Qin Sui's eyes stayed hard, but her grip tightened until her knuckles whitened.
Sun Jiao exhaled once, slow.
The archer stood shaking, knife dripping. He looked at Wuchen with something like hatred and gratitude twisted together.
"You," he whispered. "You told me to do it."
Wuchen bowed his head. "This one only said what was safest," he replied.
The archer's mouth twisted. "Safest," he spat.
Then he stepped back, grabbed his bow again, and disappeared into the trees without another word.
The stream carried the blood away.
Sun Jiao looked at Wuchen. His voice was quiet. "Now we can drop him," he said.
Wuchen nodded once.
They didn't bury the body.
Burying was a luxury.
They stepped out of the stream and moved on, boots wet, hems heavy, hands numb.
Behind them, the runner's blood thinned into the water and flowed downhill.
It would draw beasts.
But it would draw them away from Team Twelve for a time.
Wuchen walked in silence, feeling something cold settle in his chest.
He had just watched a man die because it was efficient.
He had told another man how to do it quietly.
Scribe Qiao had been right.
Hands that learned to lie with ink would lie with blood too.
And the mountain didn't care whether the lies were necessary.
It only counted bodies.