The winter had not fully claimed the Wilds, yet the air bit like sharpened glass. A cutting wind swept through the trees, tugging at the mist that hung low over the ground, making it twist and curl as if alive. The pond ahead was one of the rare places where sunlight usually broke through the canopy, spilling warmth on the cold earth. But today, the sun was smothered behind a sky of gray. No light, only shadow.

  Xiao Lei stood at its edge, the cold clinging to his bare skin. Frost nipped at the edges of his scars, the old and new lines crisscrossing his chest like faded maps of survival. His bow rested against his back, fingers hovering close to the quiver—ready. His eyes narrowed, fixed on the far side of the pond.

  Moments ago, it had been empty.

  Now, a figure stood there.

  The old man’s shape emerged slowly through the mist, as though the Wilds itself had coughed him up. He was hunched, his spine bending under the weight of years—or perhaps secrets. A robe, far too large and tattered at the edges, hung from his thin frame. It dragged against the ground, whispering as he moved. His beard spilled downward, long and unkempt, almost defiant—like it was trying to crawl away from the rest of him. His eyebrows were equally wild, jutting out in chaotic tufts.

  Yet his eyes.

  They gleamed—cold, sharp, unsettlingly alive. For a man who looked halfway to the grave, those eyes held the kind of clarity that cut through pretenses.

  He limped forward, leaning on a twisted iron cane that looked like it had survived more battles than its owner. Each step was deliberate, the drag of his leg audible even over the wind.

  On his shoulder perched a bird unlike any Xiao Lei had seen. Its feathers shimmered faintly, silver with a subtle play of colour when the mist shifted. Intelligent eyes watched him, unblinking, as though weighing his worth.

  Xiao Lei’s posture tightened. His stance widened ever so slightly, shoulders straight, fingers brushing the fletching of an arrow. Vigilance hardened his features; he was ready to fire at the slightest threat.

  The old man stopped, his head tilting just enough to suggest amusement—or boredom. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough gravel, yet carried effortlessly across the cold air.

  “You’re wound tight. Like a bowstring that forgot it’s not the arrow.”

  He sniffed and gave the sky a long glance, muttering under his breath, “Still better than the half-baked idiots back on… ah, whatever. You wouldn’t get it.”

  Xiao Lei’s brow furrowed. The words sounded strange—out of place.

  The old hopped towards him, cane digging into the dirt.

  “Fear’s useful, you know. Until it starts thinking for you.”

  He eyed Xiao Lei again, something unreadable in his gaze. Then, as if offhandedly:

  “Huh. Catalogue from Earth didn’t mention you were this twitchy. Mistrustful. Lonely. Must’ve skipped that in the fine print.”

  The bird gave a low, throaty click. The old man ignored it.

  Xiao Lei stilled. Earth. No one here should know it.

  “What…?” His voice was low, edged with suspicion. “Who are you?”

  He gave Xiao Lei a long look. Then, to no one in particular: “And here comes the identity reveal. Dramatic pause, right on cue, as if someone were writing the moment.”

  Then he shrugged. “Someone who actually knows what he’s doing. Rare thing, apparently.”

  Xiao Lei’s jaw tightened. Author? What kind of game is this old man playing? Who is he?

  His Muscles tensed beneath scarred skin, eyes flickering with the kind of alertness that came from years of surviving ambushes. His stance didn’t loosen, even as the old man showed no weapon, no hostility.

  The old man let out a low grunt.

  “Mm. There it is. Fire behind the eyes. But not the kind that warms.”

  He gave the boy a long, unreadable look.

  “Your path… it won’t be like theirs. The thing inside you—that would change your course dramatically.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  A beat passed. Then the old man waved a hand vaguely at the air, dismissing something unseen.

  “Well. Seems like this trip was pointless.” He turned, cane tapping against frost-hardened earth. “You don’t need me.”

  He took three steps.

  Stopped.

  Didn’t turn.

  “Tell you what, though…” His voice drifted back, casual. “You should try painting again. Or music.”

  Xiao Lei blinked. A twitch of disbelief flickered in his brow. Thrice now, the old man had dropped words that shouldn’t exist in this world.

  The man continued, voice dry.

  “With how much killing you’re going to do, you’ll need something to keep your soul from rotting out your ribs.”

  He tilted his head toward the bird, which ruffled its feathers in silent agreement.

  “Painting though… mm. Bit tricky. How would you get oil paints out here in this primitive stone age place?” He tapped his cane again. “Oh, right. You do stone sculpting.”

  Before Xiao Lei could react, he flicked something toward him—underhand, easy.

  Reflex took over. Fingers closed around it.

  He looked down.

  Two things. A brush—yet not a brush. Where bristles should be, a narrow blade gleamed, forged from a metal he didn’t recognize, its surface faintly humming in the cold. Beside it lay a bluish gem, unnaturally cold, biting into his palm.

  When he looked up, the man was gone.

  Only mist.

  Only silence.

  Then, just as he was about to look for the man, the old voice echoed faintly behind him, as if stitched into the trees themselves.

  “Kid… everything has an equal price. And the thing you want?”

  “I can tell you now—the cost’ll be more than you’re ready to pay.”

  Xiao Lei’s grip tightened around the strange brush-blade and cold gem. The handle felt like lacquered bone, the gem pulsed faintly—neither warm nor cold, but... aware.

  His mind churned, trying to piece together the old man’s words—Earth… author… equal price.

  None of it fit. None of it made sense.

  He stared at the mist, jaw clenched, breath fogging out into the air. A gust rolled across the pond and ruffled his hair, and with it came nothing—no footprints, no sign of the man, not even a ripple in the water.

  For a moment, Xiao Lei just stood there. He exhaled hard through his nose, slipping the items into the makeshift pouch at his waist before turning. His steps were slow, deliberate, boots crunching faintly over frost. The Wilds swallowed him again—white fog and the hush of an unforgiving world.

  The silence stretched.

  And then—

  "Two found."

  The voice came as if it had always been there, coiled in the mist.

  Just the old man, seated lazily on a fallen log, legs crossed like he’d been resting there all along. His cane leaned beside him, and the mist curled around him as if hesitant to touch.

  “One more to go... hmm. Where should I look for the last one?”

  His gaze lingered on the misty trail Xiao Lei left behind, one brow twitching upward.

  “Better he learns to kill for a reason,” he said, almost to the bird. “Not just because it’s easier than feeling.”

  On his shoulder, the little bird—silver-feathered, too still—clicked once. A sharp, almost chiding sound.

  The old man didn’t look at it at first. He tilted his head back, eyes following a cloud, lips tugging into a thin smile.

  Then his gaze slid sideways to the bird. Slowly. Deliberately.

  “Oh, don’t twitch your feathers at me, little fraud. I know what you’re thinking.”

  The bird froze. Mist coiled tighter around its perch.

  “If you whisper anything to him before I allow…”

  A pause. A breath.

  “…The next world I drag you to? They’ve got a specialty—dragon soup. Care to guess what’s in the pot?”

  The bird didn’t move. Not a twitch.

  The old man gave a faint nod, satisfied.

  “Good boy.”

  ?? — ? — ??

  The fire burned low, a small orange flame flickering against the creeping darkness. It hissed quietly as it licked the edges of the roasting meat, releasing a thin stream of smoke that curled into the night.

  Shadows stretched long across the ground, swaying with every shift of the flame. Somewhere beyond the circle of light, a spirit beast cried out—sharp, distant. The sound faded into the trees, leaving silence heavy enough to press against the skin.

  Xiao Lei sat cross-legged, the cold night air biting at his bare shoulders. His expression stayed calm, detached, like a predator at rest. The firelight traced the lines of his face—calm on the surface, yet edged with a quiet, wolfish ferocity. He reached into his pouch and drew out the gem.

  It rested cool in his palm, a soft blue gleam under the firelight. The moment it touched his skin, a soothing chill seeped deeper than flesh, curling into his chest, quieting something restless inside.

  A comforting feeling washed over his soul, as the tension in his shoulders eased. He turned it over, studying it from every angle. Smooth, simple. No markings, no secrets revealed. Only that calming sensation. After a few moments, he slipped it back into the pouch.

  His hand emerged with something else—a brush. Or rather, something shaped like a brush but sharp, its thin edge catching the firelight with a glint of metal. He turned it slowly between his fingers, its weight familiar yet strange.

  Memories tugged at him. Back on Earth, only painting and music had ever quieted the noise in his head—before they too were drowned by the endless pull of screens. For a heartbeat, the memory stung.

  His eyes lifted to a medium-sized boulder across the fire. The flame reflected faintly on its surface. He stared at it, then back at the brush, as though weighing a decision. Slowly, he exhaled. Instead of moving to the rock, he lowered himself onto the ground beside the wooden log he had been sitting on.

  The brush hovered for a moment above the surface of the log. Then, with a small, decisive motion, it touched down.

  The edge sliced cleanly, peeling off a thin curl of wood. Xiao Lei’s brows rose slightly. The tool was sharp—far sharper than it appeared. His hand steadied, movements slow, precise. Shavings began to fall, each cut guided by an unspoken rhythm. The log yielded easily under the brush, the firelight catching on the pale wood revealed beneath the bark.

  He worked in silence. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the soft rasp of the blade as it carved. Each stroke carried care, deliberate and unhurried, as if the act itself was more important than the shape forming beneath his hands.

  Time stretched. The night air smelled of smoke and pine. The darkness beyond the fire’s glow remained watchful, but the small circle of light felt almost warm.

  For the first time in months, warmth bloomed—not from the fire, but from the faint ember inside him that refused to die.

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  Destiny Reckoning. It’s set in the same universe, and you definitely don’t want to miss it, because the stories will eventually crossover.