The forest was quiet, a stillness broken only by the soft crackle of Jin Wu’s dwindling fire. The wagon sat at the edge of the clearing, just outside the mercenary camp. The night was cold, and a thin mist clung to the ground, muffling the world in silence. Granny Xiu lay nearby, her bulk rising and falling with steady breaths as she dozed.

Inside the wagon, Jin Wu lay on his side, his straw hat tilted low over his face. He wasn’t one for dreams; his rest was the light, disciplined kind only ex-soldiers knew. The soft hum of an ametrine talisman hung on the wagon's canopy was barely perceptible, its faint glow blending into the haze of the night.

An owl hooted, and the crickets went silent just as the talisman flared suddenly, a sharp pulse of energy rippling through the wagon. The thin strip of ametrine, inscribed with markings, emitted a faint hum—a subtle vibration that only Jin Wu could feel. His eyes snapped open.

So soon, he thought.

He didn’t move immediately. Years of experience had taught him the value of stillness. Instead, his breathing slowed, and his senses extended outward. The talisman pulsed again, quieter this time, as if whispering a warning into the night. His hand formed a sigil, and a light pulse of Shen radiated outward.

There.

The ripple of Shen brushed against his awareness like a single drop falling into a still pond. Five distinct auras, faint but unmistakable, moved through the forest. They were lightly clad with only small weapons, obviously well-trained for their sinister intent—quiet, precise, and deliberate. Anyone else would have been caught unawares.

Jin Wu let his senses expand, feeling the space around him with the same clarity as a painter working on a blank canvas. The five figures fanned out, one moving toward the wagon from the left, another from the right. Two more crept through the underbrush ahead, careful to keep low. The last hung back, perched in the trees—a watcher, or perhaps a sniper.

A grim smile tugged at Jin Wu’s lips, though his face remained hidden beneath his hat.

Typical, he thought, relying on Qi for concealment. But they knew nothing of Shen—and it would be their downfall.

Jin Wu sat up slowly, the thin blanket draped over him falling aside as he adjusted his hat. He reached into the storage compartment in the wagon’s floor, his hand closing around a small, glowing talisman. A flicker of Shen energy activated the ward again, reinforcing its protective barrier around his wagon. He had no interest in collateral damage, not even for a fight as small as this.

His senses sharpened. The closest mercenary had reached the edge of his campfire’s glow, the faint silhouette of a blade glinting in the dying embers. Another step, and he’d set foot in the ward.

The man stepped forward.

Jin Wu moved.

In a single, fluid motion, he stepped out of the wagon; his form wreathed in the faint shimmer of Shen energy. His hand rose lazily, almost casually, and the darkness around him shifted.

A blade erupted into existence, forged not from steel or iron but pure Shen energy. The weapon glimmered with an otherworldly light before it darkened, black flames licking along its edge. The Dragonflame Sword burned with an intensity that consumed even the faintest glimmer of light around it, as if the blade itself devoured the world’s radiance.

The first mercenary froze mid-step, his breath catching as his eyes locked on the blade. The sword moved faster than his reflexes could follow, slicing through him in a single, silent arc. He didn’t scream. He didn’t have the chance. The black flames consumed him utterly, his form crumbling to ash before it even hit the ground.

The other mercenaries hesitated, their careful approach shattered by the sudden loss of their comrade. The two in the underbrush surged forward, their blades gleaming faintly in the darkness. Jin Wu didn’t retreat. He raised his free hand, and two more swords burst into being, their black flames writhing as they hung in the air, waiting for his command.

The first of the attackers leaped toward him, his blade arcing downward in a powerful strike. Jin Wu didn’t flinch. With a flick of his wrist, one of the flaming swords surged forward, cutting through the man’s attack and carving through his chest in one fluid motion. The second mercenary tried to circle around, his movements desperate, but the third sword curved through the air, slashing across his throat before he could react.

The last two mercenaries faltered, their careful training unraveling in the face of Jin Wu’s overwhelming precision. The one perched in the trees let loose a desperate bolt of Qi, a spear of golden light arcing toward Jin Wu. The black flames of his blade met the attack mid-air, consuming the golden light like a predator devouring prey.

The watcher turned to flee.

“Too late,” Jin Wu murmured, his voice low and cold.

A fourth sword erupted into existence, its black flames streaking through the air like a shadow given form. It struck the fleeing mercenary in the back, the flames consuming him utterly before he hit the ground.

The fifth mercenary, the one who had held back, dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, trembling. “Wait!” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “Please—”

The black flames flickered as Jin Wu dismissed his swords, the blades vanishing into the night like smoke dispersing in the wind. He stepped closer to the trembling man, his straw hat tilting low enough to cast his face in shadow.

“Your captain,” Jin Wu said, his tone devoid of emotion. “Where is he?”

The mercenary stammered, his words barely coherent. Jin Wu’s patience lasted only a moment longer before a single blade flickered back into existence, its edge hovering inches from the man’s throat.

“The captain,” Jin Wu repeated, his voice cutting through the man’s panic like a blade through flesh.

“H-he’s by the main tent!” the mercenary blurted, his hands raised in surrender. “Please, I swear that’s all I—”

The blade struck before he could finish, a single, precise cut that ended his words and his life. Jin Wu turned away as the man crumbled to ash, his focus already shifting to the camp beyond.

He sighed. There was no use in delaying as much as he had wanted to listen to their gossip.

The mercenary camp lay shrouded in a tense stillness, broken only by the occasional crackle of the dying central fire and the faint shuffle of guards patrolling the perimeter. Shadows shifted between the wagons, their movements deliberate and subdued. Most of the men had already retired for the night, leaving only a few sentries awake, their watchful eyes scanning the darkness. They were cautious—but not cautious enough.

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Jin Wu slipped through the shadows like a wisp of smoke, his presence dissolved into the night by the Aura Flux Art. With a subtle motion, he raised his hand, conjuring two swords from the void. Their black flames writhed like living shadows, consuming the surrounding light and radiating a quiet, dreadful heat. The Dragonflame Sword Art demanded no sound, no wasted motion—only lethal precision.

The first sword moved toward the sentries at the edge of the camp, cutting through them with such precision that neither had time to raise the alarm. The second sword swept through the few men who sat by the fire, its movements like a serpent striking in the dark. Jin Wu followed at a measured pace, his expression calm as the flames did their work. There was no need for haste. His art was thorough.

One by one, the mercenaries fell, consumed to ashes without a sound. Jin Wu moved silently through the camp, summoning and dismissing swords as needed. Each strike was deliberate, leaving no room for error. By the time the last blade vanished into the night, the camp was silent.

Only one man remained.

The mercenary captain was a hulking figure, his armor marked with the scars of countless battles. He sat near the largest tent, his back to the fire, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The quiet around him felt wrong, a hollow silence that wrapped around the camp like a noose. His eyes darted toward the shadows, his instincts screaming danger.

Jin Wu stepped into the firelight, his figure framed by the smoldering embers of the central fire. He didn’t bother summoning a blade immediately; the lingering aura of the Dragonflame Sword Art clung to him like a predator’s breath, oppressive and suffocating.

The captain pushed himself to his feet, his hand tightening on the hilt of his weapon. But Jin Wu’s voice sliced through the stillness, low and sharp.

“I wouldn’t.”

The captain froze mid-step, his eyes widening. His gaze flicked toward the shadows where his men should have been. The emptiness cut deeper than any blade, and the faint stench of scorched flesh told him everything he needed to know.

“What are you?” the captain growled, his grip tightening on his sword. Jin Wu didn’t miss the flicker of hesitation in the man’s stance or the slight tremor in his voice. The bravado was there, but it was crumbling, piece by piece, as the captain’s eyes darted to the empty shadows where his men should have been.

Jin Wu stepped closer, his movements calm, deliberate. Beneath the brim of his hat, his expression was unreadable, but his presence carried a weight that pressed down like the end of a blade. With a flick of his wrist, a single blade of black Dragonflame shimmered into existence. It hovered inches from the captain’s throat, its flames devouring the air itself, pulling light into its depths. The captain flinched, the unnatural heat forcing him to recoil.

“What am I?” Jin Wu’s voice was quiet, almost conversational, but its weight crushed any semblance of defiance. “Just a talisman peddler collecting debts.”

The captain’s grip on his sword faltered. His lips parted as though to speak, but no words came.

Finally, he stammered, “You… You were just an old man! A peddler!”

Jin Wu tilted his head slightly, his calm voice carrying a note of mocking amusement.

“Was I?” He took a step closer, the black flame pulsing like the heartbeat of a slumbering dragon. “Maybe you’ll figure it out… as you drift down a river I know well.”

The captain’s knees shook as the blade inched closer, its black flames licking the edges of his armor. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cool night air. He opened his mouth to protest, but Jin Wu raised a hand, silencing him.

“But first,” Jin Wu said, his tone turning colder, “you’ll answer two questions.”

“I… I’ll tell you everything,” the captain blurted, his voice breaking. “Just—just don’t kill me!”

A pulse of Shen radiated from Jin Wu, striking the captain like a hammer. His Qi shattered instantly, his dantian broken like brittle glass. The captain crumpled to his knees, his hand falling limply from the hilt of his sword.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Jin Wu said flatly, his tone devoid of sympathy. “Now—who hired you?”

The captain trembled, his jaw tightening as he fought against his fear. But as the black flame flickered closer, its heat brushing against his skin, the resistance melted away.

“The Darkmoon Sect,” the captain spat, his voice tinged with bitterness. “They hired us to secure the prisoners. We were told to take them to the Ashen Wastes.”

Jin Wu’s gaze remained steady, giving away nothing. “And the prisoners?” he pressed, his voice clipped and cold. “What are they for?”

The captain hesitated, his body trembling as the blade pulsed menacingly. “A ritual,” he admitted finally, his voice shaking. “That’s all I know. I swear it!”

The Dragonflame blade flared slightly, forcing the captain to lean back as far as his trembling legs allowed. “You’re sure?” Jin Wu asked, his tone mild but carrying the promise of retribution.

“Yes! Yes, I swear it!” the captain gasped. “The Darkmoon Sect doesn’t tell us anything else. We’re just muscle. That’s all we are!”

Jin Wu studied him for a moment longer, his dark eyes unrelenting. Then, with a flick of his fingers, the blade dissipated into the air, its presence vanishing as though it had never been.

The captain slumped in relief, his trembling hands pressing into the dirt. He dared to look up at Jin Wu, a glimmer of hope breaking through his terror. “I’ve told you everything,” he rasped. “You said—”

A second blade of Dragonflame ignited, its black light swallowing the faint glow of the embers. Jin Wu’s expression remained unreadable as the blade streaked forward, piercing the captain’s back with surgical precision.

“Too late to regret your choices now,” Jin Wu murmured, his voice barely audible over the sound of the captain’s form crumbling into ash.

Jin Wu didn’t look back as he stepped over the charred remains, his steps steady as he moved toward the prisoners.

Jin Wu found the prisoners bound near the edge of the camp, their wrists and ankles shackled with Qi-infused iron. Their faces were pale, their robes torn and smeared with grime.

He had a bittersweet taste in his mouth. All of them had the emblem of the Silent Willow Sect on their robes—none were from the Eternal Harmony Sect.

He crouched beside the nearest disciple, a young woman whose shallow breathing was the only sign of life left in her. Her head tilted slightly as his shadow fell over her, her eyes fluttering open in a daze.

“Can you stand?” Jin Wu asked, his voice low and steady as he broke her shackles.

Her lips moved soundlessly, her expression blank with shock. Jin Wu didn’t wait for a response. He retrieved a vial from his storage pouch, shaking a small medicinal pill into his palm.

“Swallow,” he instructed, pressing the pill to her lips. She obeyed, her body relaxing slightly as the medicine took effect. The faint tension in her shoulders softened as strength seeped back into her limbs.

He moved methodically to the others, repeating the process until all twelve captives were treated. One by one, their breathing steadied, their eyes clearing as they began to shake off the haze of exhaustion and fear. But they remained silent, staring at him with a mixture of awe and mistrust.

Jin Wu’s gaze lingered on the disciples. Seeing them stirred something in his mind—a vague unease scratched at the edges of a larger truth he couldn’t yet name.

The Silent Willow Sect, too, had been attacked like the Eternal Harmony Sect. The realization came with a chill that spread through his core. It wasn’t a coincidence. Someone was targeting the sects, dismantling them piece by piece. The mercenaries might have carried out the work, but they weren’t acting alone.

The Darkmoon Sect. Jin Wu turned the name over in his mind, his jaw tightening. It wasn’t one he recognized, but if they had the resources to coordinate this… what else were they capable of?

He rose to his feet, his gaze sweeping over the freed captives. “Your sect is gone,” he said quietly, the words carrying a weight that stilled the air around him. “There’s nothing left for you there.”

The disciples exchanged glances, their expressions flickering between grief and confusion.

“You can’t stay here,” Jin Wu continued, his tone matter-of-fact. “I’ll leave silver and weapons for you. Follow this road south. You’ll reach a town in two days if you pace yourselves. From there…” He hesitated briefly, then added, “From there, return home or find somewhere safe.”

The girl seemed about to protest, but she simply nodded.

Jin Wu adjusted the brim of his hat, his voice softening slightly. “Live. That’s the best thing you can do now. Live, and don’t draw attention to yourselves.”

He turned away, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the faint silhouette of jagged peaks marked the edge of the Ashen Wastes. If this Darkmoon Sect was orchestrating attacks on the sects, they wouldn’t stop here. And if the Ferrets were alive, they would be there.

“First light,” Jin Wu said without turning back. “Rest tonight. I leave at dawn.”