Xiao Lei did not linger. He stepped out from Chief Qingshan’s house with the same calm indifference he had carried throughout their exchange. Behind him, silence clung like a shadow.

  Ordinarily, Qingshan would have pressed an academy student to remain as a guest—wine, courtesy, and persistence until etiquette prevailed. To host one of the Royal Academy was both honour and shield. Refusing risked insult. Yet no such invitation came tonight. Rage burned too hot in his chest, scorching away all pretences of hospitality.

  Xiao Lei never once looked back. Protocol, bows, posturing—such things meant nothing beside purpose. His steps carried him into the cool dusk, where the air tasted faintly of woodsmoke from the village hearths.

  At the gate, two figures approached. One, a youth of seventeen, lean but not yet hardened by cultivation. The other, scarcely more than six, his wide eyes bright with unguarded eagerness. The elder recognized Xiao Lei at once and bowed.

  Xiao Lei inclined his head in acknowledgment—no more, no less—and walked past without pause.

  The brothers entered the house. The younger darted forward, ready to leap into his father’s arms, but Jun Tai’s hand caught his sleeve. The boy frowned, confused, then stilled when he saw their father’s face.

  Qingshan sat slumped in his chair, shoulders heavy, as though the wood alone kept him upright. His jaw clenched, his breath ragged, a kettle of fury held just below the whistle. The younger boy hesitated, uncertain, but Jun Tai stepped forward first.

  “Father… did something happen?”

  The question hung unanswered. His eyes flicked to the door, a curse dying against clenched teeth. Wealth could be rebuilt. Reputation might be clawed back. But one careless word from that youth… and everything could vanish.

  The threat had been delivered in calm, measured tones—that calm unsettled him more than fury ever could.

  He forced a breath, unclenched his jaw, and reached out, hand steadying on the child’s head. “Father is only tired. Sit.”

  The boy pressed close against him at once. Jun Tai lowered himself beside them, but his gaze drifted to the gate as if the departing figure still lingered there.

  Xiao Lei.

  His father’s silence told him more than words. Whatever had just transpired had its root in that academy student. His own talent was meagre, his path shallow. He had never envied those who entered such places. He had thought himself content—with family, with the quiet life of the village.

  But seeing his father’s weariness—the faint tremor in the hand that stroked his brother’s hair—drove a splinter deep into his heart. His nails dug into his palms until they hurt.

  Power mattered. More than honour. More than love.

  Even as he looked away, Xiao Lei’s presence clung to the edge of his vision, an afterimage he could not shake.

  Xiao Lei wandered through the narrow lanes of the border village, his pace unhurried yet his gaze sharp. For all its modest size, the place bustled more than most towns—inns lined the streets, their doors worn smooth by the endless passage of traders moving between Shanli and the distant roads of Xihe.

  Smoke drifted from low eaves, carrying the scents of broth and spiced meat, mingling with the harsher tang of packed beasts and wagon wheels grinding stone.

  He chose an inn without ceremony, sliding a few coins across the counter. The room was plain—bed, basin, shuttered window. After rinsing the road’s dust from his face and hands, he descended to the eating hall. A few dishes arrived swiftly, their steam rising in curling threads. He ate without a word, chopsticks moving with steady rhythm, while his mind turned elsewhere.

  Chief Qingshan had begged for a week to gather his wealth. Xiao Lei had granted only three days. A week was a shield—time enough to weave excuses, perhaps even contact academy. Three days left Qingshan gasping, trapped in a net that offered no space to breathe.

  He had further ordered the man to spread word: a great caravan would pass through the village in five days’ time. A lure for the bandits, painted in rumour and gilded with urgency. Xiao Lei’s tone had been cold when he spoke the threat—failure would be written as Qingshan’s alone, a mark that even his death could not erase.

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  A lie, of course. The academy wouldn’t spare a glance for such trifles. But Qingshan didn’t need to know that, and Xiao Lei’s instinct urged him to press hard, to deny the man the time to test or twist his words. If his suspicion proved true, then the trap would spring cleanly. Within the week, he could walk free of this village, one task secured—and perhaps a step closer to breaking through.

  That thought hung heavy. The ninth stage loomed like a cold moon—distant, unreachable, yet pulling at him all the same.

  Two paths pulled at him. One, rare herbs—treasures like the Flowing Qi pill, if he could find them. The other, blood—beasts, or cultivators themselves, essence stolen through the Devouring Art. Both paths reeked of peril. Each demanded a swiftness he did not yet command.

  His chopsticks stilled. The plates emptied. Outside, light slanted harshly through the open shutters. He sat a moment longer, gaze caught on the sway of banners over the street, the idle laughter of merchants, the quick scurry of children. Life moved, unaware of snares tightening in the shadows.

  Rising, he stepped into the day. The sun pressed down, sharp and pale—the kind of winter light that promised the season’s end but carried no warmth. Breath plumed faintly in the air as he moved through the village. He watched faces, hands, the rhythm of work. At the edges of the crowd, soldiers lingered in pairs, iron at their waists and weariness in their eyes, garrison men stationed nearby.

  Xiao Lei drifted on, silent. Around him, merchants laughed, children darted through the dust, soldiers leaned on spears. Yet beneath it all, he felt the village shift—as if the noose had begun to draw in.

  For three days, Xiao Lei drifted through the village like a phantom. Gambling houses, inns, wine shops—every corner where tongues grew loose, he lingered. Yet the air yielded nothing. Dice rattled, cups clinked, drinkers laughed, but no whispers of bandits. No fresh raids. Even the rumour of a caravan, bait dangling so near, stirred only a murmur or two.

  The quiet unsettled him more than noise ever could. Villagers should have gossiped with greed or fear. Instead, they were muted, as if tongues had been cut. The scraps he caught circled not the bandits, but Jun Tai, Qingshan’s adopted son. Barely seventeen, yet already chosen to lead the caravan escort.

  Disappointment gnawed at him. At last, he turned toward the chief’s home.

  Inside, a cup of tea steamed untouched in his hand when Qingshan hurried in, Jun Tai close behind. Xiao Lei’s eyes slid from father to son, and the tilt of his head said enough. Qingshan stiffened and dismissed the boy at once.

  Jun Tai bowed, gaze fixed on Xiao Lei, simmering with quiet defiance and the need to prove himself. Then he turned, shoulders squared, the tension lingering even as he left.

  “My apologies,” Qingshan said quickly, palms pressed together, voice taut. “The child worries for his father.”

  Xiao Lei gave a low laugh, stripped of warmth. “Nothing worth apology.”

  Qingshan forced composure. “Everything is prepared.” Each word fell like stone.

  He led Xiao Lei deeper into the house. Through the inner chamber, down a narrow stair, until the air cooled around lacquered boxes stacked in order, their sheen catching lamplight.

  Xiao Lei’s gaze skimmed them, then cut back. “And the decoy?”

  “As you ordered,” Qingshan replied stiffly. “A carriage laden with imitation crates. But… why a decoy?”

  “Because,” Xiao Lei said, tone flat, “though suspicion clings to you, I won’t strip a man bare unless I’m certain. Once the bait is displayed, I’ll exchange your wealth for the false load. Even if disaster strikes, your coffers remain untouched.”

  Qingshan hesitated, eyes narrowing. “But would that not backfire? If I were the leak, and knew it was a decoy, I could stage an attack, sacrifice men, then retreat unharmed—or strike the true caravan later besides. The academy compensates me, and I profit twice. Your own words, were they not?”

  His gaze probed Xiao Lei’s face for weakness. None came.

  “You think like a village bumpkin,” Xiao Lei said at last, voice slow and cutting. “Do you imagine I would fall so easily? If you are the traitor, you will not dare risk it. One academy student dying here would see this village burned from the map. And the reports—do you think I haven’t read them? Students returning with only scratches, bandits melting away. Too careful. Too rehearsed. It reeks of someone guiding them.”

  He stepped closer, the lamplight stretched his shadow long across the stacked boxes.

  “And second—only a handful know of the decoy. If the true caravan is struck, suspicion narrows to those few. You. Your kin. No one else.”

  His eyes bored into Qingshan’s.

  “Tell me—do you dare?”

  Under those feral eyes, Qingshan faltered. His throat worked, and what escaped was a thin, brittle laugh. “I dare not, Sir Lei.”

  He had faced merchants, soldiers, even petty lords, but never had he been driven so far back by a boy not yet fifteen. The weight on his chest was suffocating. Only monsters could enter the Royal Academy—now he believed it. A thought flickered, bitter as ash: if only my son could walk those halls. The dream dissolved as quickly as it rose. Too distant. Too cruel.

  Xiao Lei gave no reply. He turned, steps unhurried, voice slicing the silence into clean edges.

  “The caravan comes tomorrow. A day earlier. Whatever plans the bandits nursed—they’re already broken. Now tell me, Chief, do you see why I walk with such confidence?”

  The words trailed after him like a blade’s chill, lingering even as the door closed on his figure.

  Qingshan remained frozen, hand pressed against the table, knuckles pale. That confidence—it wasn’t arrogance but something colder, harder, as though the boy carried knowledge he dared not reveal.

  How can he be so certain? The thought gnawed at him. If a mole truly existed, perhaps they wouldn’t dare touch him. The Academy’s wrath would erase the village in a night. But what if there was no traitor? Bandits cared nothing for consequence. They could cut him down, vanish across the border, leave only a corpse behind. Did Xiao Lei not fear that? Or had he already uncovered proof, waiting to spring?

  The questions tightened around his ribs. Sweat dampened his collar, and he forced a breath through clenched teeth. No more doubt. The caravan, the decoy, every detail must be readied.

  For if he faltered, who could predict what that dreadful boy might do next?

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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.