Dawn broke with pale light spilling across Lian County, and Chen Mo was already moving. After a quick breakfast and checking his gear, he slipped into the nearby woods, senses alert, bow ready. The forest hummed with life, but today the rhythm of ordinary prey felt different.

  A sudden flash caught his eye—a blur darting between the trees, twisting and weaving as if aware of him. Not a hare, not a pheasant. Chen Mo crouched low, his movements silent as shadows, tracking the creature through dense undergrowth. It leapt over roots, slipped beneath low branches, and vanished into a thicket only to reappear moments later, faster and wilder. Chen Mo adjusted his pace, predicting its erratic patterns, forcing it to reveal itself while remaining unseen.

  The chase wove deeper into the forest. Every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves made his heart tighten. The animal—a fox unlike any he had seen—was cunning, darting through narrow gaps, circling back, testing him. Chen Mo anticipated each feint, each zigzag, his training and instincts from months of hunting now a single, fluid motion. He read the subtle marks it left: bent grass, disturbed soil, the faint glint of eyes reflected in early light.

  Finally, in a clearing edged with golden ferns, the fox made a desperate leap—too high for Chen Mo’s eyes alone to follow. He calculated the trajectory in a heartbeat, notching an arrow mid-stride. The bow sang, the arrow struck true, and the fox tumbled to the ground, its streaked fur glinting in the sun.

  As he approached to examine his rare catch, a sudden rustle drew his attention. Two youths emerged from the trees, their eyes widening in surprise and awe at the unusual prey, frozen between admiration and fear of this silent, deadly hunter.

  The two youths slowed when they took in Chen Mo’s appearance. Rough cloth, worn boots, a hunter’s satchel slung plainly over his shoulder. No emblem. No badge. No trace of any martial hall. Their guarded expressions eased almost instantly.

  One of them stepped forward with a practiced smile. “Friend, no need to be nervous. We’re not bandits.” He clasped his hands casually. “I’m Qiu Ren, and this is Sun He. We’re members of the Iron Fang Gang.”

  Chen Mo’s gaze flicked briefly to their identical uniforms, then back to the fox. His expression remained calm, but inwardly he felt a cold amusement. As expected.

  The two didn’t wait for his reply. They crouched near the fallen fox, eyes scanning its strange fur and slender frame. The greed in their gaze was poorly concealed.

  Qiu Ren straightened and said lightly, “How about this? Sell the little fox to us. One tael of silver.”

  Sun He chuckled and added, “You won’t get that price anywhere else, village boy.”

  Chen Mo calmly lifted the fox and slipped it into his satchel. “Sorry,” he said evenly. “I already have a buyer.”

  The air shifted.

  Qiu Ren’s smile stiffened. Sun He’s brows knitted together as irritation crept onto his face. “Don’t be so greedy,” Sun He said, voice hardening. “We’re giving you a fair deal.”

  As he spoke, both men placed their hands on the hilts of their swords, fingers resting meaningfully on the guards. The threat was clear, naked, and deliberate.

  Chen Mo’s eyes lingered on the weapons for a brief moment. Then he nodded slowly. “In that case,” he said, “I’ll sell it to you both, gentlemen.”

  The tension loosened.

  Qiu Ren let out a low laugh, a wicked grin spreading across his face. Sun He relaxed his stance slightly, already imagining the profit.

  That was when Chen Mo moved.

  In a single fluid motion, he spun around, kicked off the ground, and vanished into the dense bushes behind him, leaves and branches exploding outward as he sprinted away.

  For half a breath, the two stood frozen.

  Then rage erupted.

  “You bastard!” Qiu Ren roared.

  “You think you can run?” Sun He shouted as they tore after him, swords drawn, crashing into the undergrowth in furious pursuit.

  The hunt had just changed direction.

  The forest swallowed them whole.

  Branches lashed at Chen Mo’s face as he ran, roots flashing beneath his feet like hidden fangs. He did not flee blindly. Every turn bent toward uneven ground, every leap carried him across mud, thorns, or fallen trunks meant to slow pursuit. Behind him, curses tore through the woods, heavy footsteps cracking branches with brute impatience.

  Fast… but sloppy.

  Chen Mo listened while running. Breath. Weight. Distance. The two Iron Fang youths were persistent, and worse, familiar with the forest’s outskirts. Even if he shook them off once, they would remember his build, his gear, his direction. Gang men were like feral dogs. Let one scent linger, and it would circle back again and again.

  Running would only delay the problem.

  His pace slowed imperceptibly as the thought settled. If he escaped today, tomorrow might bring ambush. Or the day after. Or a blade in the dark when he returned from the hall. Danger deferred was danger compounded.

  Chen Mo’s hand tightened around his bow.

  A head-on clash was impossible. Two armed men, both trained, both reckless enough to kill without hesitation. That path led nowhere but death. But this was not a street. This was the forest.

  And the forest was his.

  He veered sharply, slipping behind a cluster of ancient trees, then vanished into a narrow ravine choked with brush. His breathing steadied. His steps grew silent. In one smooth motion, he nocked an arrow, fingers settling into a grip carved by countless hunts.

  No more running.

  If they wanted prey, he would give it to them.

  Today, the hunter would hunt back.

  Chen Mo melted into stillness.

  He crouched behind a fallen log veiled by brambles, knees planted, spine straight, breath sinking until it barely stirred his chest. The forest’s noise returned to him in layers. Leaves rubbing. A bird startled into flight. The careless rush of men who believed speed could replace caution. His fingers found the bowstring by memory alone, the wood familiar as bone.

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  Archery was no longer a skill. It was an instinct.

  A silhouette burst through the brush.

  Sun He vaulted the low shrubs in a single stride, eyes fixed ahead, mind already tasting capture. A warning prickled at the back of his neck, a hunter’s superstition arriving a heartbeat too late. He turned—

  The arrow arrived first.

  It flew without sound, without mercy, a straight line drawn by certainty itself. Hu San’s body jerked. His eyes went wide, then empty. He looked down as if confused, seeing the arrow buried cleanly through his throat, its tip protruding slick and red behind his neck. A wet gurgle clawed up his chest, died in his mouth. His knees buckled, and he collapsed into the leaves, dead before the forest could echo his fall.

  A second figure skidded to a halt.

  Qui Ren stumbled forward, then froze, staring at the corpse at his feet. His face drained of color, shock cracking through his bravado. The woods suddenly felt too quiet. Too tight.

  He swallowed hard.

  Somewhere nearby, unseen and patient, a bowstring hummed softly as another arrow was drawn.

  Qi Ren’s pupils shrank to pinpoints.

  The instant Hu San fell, something inside him screamed. He did not think. He threw himself sideways, slamming into the trunk of a nearby tree as hard as he could. The bark scraped his shoulder raw.

  A dull thud followed immediately.

  An arrow buried itself exactly where his head had been a breath earlier, the shaft still quivering, wood vibrating with restrained force. Qi Ren pressed his back against the tree, chest heaving. Cold sweat poured down his spine, soaking his clothes despite the chill shade of the forest.

  Too fast.

  Far too fast.

  This was no lucky shot. No frightened villager flailing with a bow.

  His fingers tightened around his sword hilt, knuckles white. Qi Ren held his breath, ears straining, heart hammering so loudly he feared it would give him away. The forest felt different now. Every shadow seemed to watch him. Every rustle carried intent.

  He finally understood.

  They were not hunting the fox anymore.

  He was the prey.

  Qi Ren spat out a shaky breath.

  “Fuck… that was close.”

  His back stayed glued to the tree as he roared into the forest, voice rough but carrying a forced bravado.

  “You dare kill a member of the Iron Fang Gang? You’re dead, boy! Dead, do you hear me!”

  His shout echoed between the trunks, scattering birds into the air.

  No answer came.

  Only silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.

  Qi Ren’s throat tightened. The lack of response was worse than any insult. It meant the archer was calm. Patient. Watching.

  He gritted his teeth and glanced around, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. Lingering here was suicide. Whoever that hunter was, he did not fight head on. He waited, measured, and struck when there was no room for reaction.

  Qi Ren swallowed hard.

  Revenge could wait.

  Survival came first.

  Lowering his body, he slipped away in a jagged path, using trees and boulders for cover, forcing himself not to run. His heart still thundered, but his steps grew lighter, more cautious.

  Behind him, the forest remained quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Qi Ren did not get far.

  The moment he thought he had slipped free, the forest betrayed him.

  A faint whistle cut through the air.

  Pain detonated in his thigh.

  Qi Ren screamed as his leg folded beneath him, the arrow tearing clean through muscle and slamming him sideways into a tree trunk. Bark cracked. His sword flew from his grasp and hit the ground with a dull clang. He clawed at the shaft in blind panic, breath coming out in ragged bursts, blood already soaking his trousers.

  “You—!”

  The second arrow arrived before the curse could finish.

  It struck his shoulder and drove him flat onto the forest floor. The impact crushed the air from his lungs, forcing out a broken wheeze. Leaves and soil pressed against his cheek. His vision swam, ears ringing.

  Then he saw him.

  Chen Mo stepped out from the undergrowth, bow still raised, string humming faintly. His posture was straight, movements measured, as if the forest itself had taught him where to place his feet. There was no haste in him. No fury. Only cold focus.

  Qi Ren’s bravado collapsed completely.

  “W-wait!” he gasped, saliva and blood mixing at the corner of his mouth. “We can talk. It was a misunderstanding. The fox… take it. I swear, I won’t tell anyone—”

  Chen Mo stopped a few steps away.

  “You chased me,” he said softly. “You put your hand on your sword.”

  His eyes flicked once to the Iron Fang emblem, then back to Qi Ren’s face.

  “That choice was already made.”

  Qi Ren tried to crawl backward, dragging his useless leg, nails tearing at the dirt. Terror hollowed out his expression, leaving nothing but pleading.

  Chen Mo did not loose another arrow.

  He walked forward, drew a shorter shaft from his quiver, and with a swift, practiced motion drove it down into Qi Ren’s throat.

  The sound was dull. Wet. Final.

  Qi Ren convulsed once, eyes bulging, then went still. Blood poured freely now, dark and steaming as it soaked into the leaves.

  Chen Mo remained where he was.

  For the first time, his breath hitched.

  His heart slammed violently against his ribs, each beat loud enough that it seemed to echo in his ears. His fingers trembled slightly as he watched the blood drip from the arrowhead, fall by fall, vanishing into the earth.

  This was not a beast.

  There was no panel prompt. No clean sense of completion.

  Only the undeniable weight of it.

  He had crossed the line.

  Chen Mo swallowed, forcing his breathing to steady, forcing his hand to still. He knelt, retrieved his arrows one by one, wiping them carefully on the dead man’s clothes. The motions were deliberate, almost ritualistic, as if order itself might anchor him.