The night deepened, and the warmth of the campfire faded to embers, casting faint red glows that danced along the edges of the darkened forest. The quiet sounds of the forest, once unfamiliar and foreboding to Xing Wuye, had now settled into a soft background hum. The gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze and the occasional distant call of an animal helped lull the caravan into sleep. Even Wuye, whose mind was still tangled with grief and uncertainty, had begun to drift off, his body exhausted from the day's journey.

But the darkness hid more than just the quiet of the forest.

Unseen, shadowy figures crept along the edges of the camp, moving with the silence of predators stalking prey. There were five of them—bandits, by their ragged clothes and crude weapons. Their eyes gleamed in the dim moonlight, focused on the travelers, vulnerable in sleep.

They were experienced hunters of the road, scavengers who thrived on ambushes. To them, this caravan was nothing more than an opportunity—unguarded merchants, easy marks for a quick robbery. Their plan was simple: move in quietly, take what they wanted, and leave the caravan too confused and scared to follow.

But there was one thing they hadn't accounted for: the hidden protector among the travelers.

Wuye, half-asleep on the bedroll he had spread out by the fire, stirred slightly, feeling an odd prickling sensation along the back of his neck. He opened his eyes, squinting in the darkness. The fire was nearly out, and the night had become unnaturally quiet. His instincts, though not fully formed, whispered that something was wrong.

Suddenly, there was a soft rustle, the faintest sound of movement. Wuye sat up, his heart pounding in his chest, his senses sharpened by fear. In the darkness, he saw a glint of metal—a knife—held by one of the bandits, only a few paces from the nearest sleeping merchant.

Before Wuye could cry out, a blur of movement erupted from the shadows.

From the far edge of the camp, a figure appeared, moving faster than Wuye's eyes could follow. It was a man, dressed in dark, unassuming clothes, but the way he moved was anything but ordinary. He covered the distance between himself and the closest bandit in a heartbeat, his form nearly invisible in the night.

The bandit barely had time to react. The stranger struck with an open palm, but the force behind the blow was devastating. The bandit was thrown back, crashing into a tree with a sickening thud, his body going limp as he slumped to the ground.

Wuye's eyes widened. This wasn't just a guard—this was something more. A martial artist.

Chaos erupted as the other bandits realized their ambush had been detected. One of them lunged at the martial artist with a crude sword, but the stranger moved with the fluid grace of a predator. He sidestepped the attack effortlessly and struck again, his fist connecting with the bandit's chest. The sound of cracking ribs echoed through the night, and the bandit fell to the ground, gasping for breath.

By now, the camp was waking up. The merchants and travelers scrambled to their feet, shouting in confusion as they realized they were under attack. The fire roared back to life as one of the drivers threw more wood onto the embers, illuminating the scene with flickering light.

The remaining three bandits hesitated, clearly unsure of whether to press the attack or flee. The martial artist, now standing in the full light of the fire, seemed unconcerned. His posture was calm, his breathing steady, as though he hadn't just taken down two men in the blink of an eye.

He was tall and lean, his face partially obscured by the shadow of his hood. But there was a quiet intensity in his eyes, a confidence born from years of training. His movements had the precision of someone who had mastered his body and mind in ways most could only dream of.

Wuye didn't know the exact terms, but something in his gut told him this man was far beyond a simple guard. This was someone in the upstream stage of body refinement, a level of martial arts Wuye had only heard whispers of in passing stories. The way the man moved, the sheer force behind each strike—it was beyond normal human limits.

The leader of the bandits, a scarred man with a cruel sneer, barked a command to his remaining comrades. "Kill him! Don't let him take us down one by one!"

Two of the bandits rushed forward, blades drawn, their faces twisted with desperation. But the martial artist was faster, his movements a blur of speed and power. He dodged their attacks with ease, each strike missing him by inches. Then, with a single, fluid motion, he disarmed one of the attackers, sending his sword clattering to the ground.

With a swift, decisive strike, the martial artist spun and drove his elbow into the side of the second bandit's head. The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he even hit the dirt. The final bandit faltered, his face pale with fear.

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The scarred leader gritted his teeth, gripping his sword tightly, but his bravado was fading fast. He took a step back, realizing he was outmatched.

"You should've stayed in the shadows," the martial artist said, his voice low and steady. He took a step forward, his presence radiating control. "Now, you won't leave this forest."

The leader's eyes darted around, weighing his options. "This isn't over," he spat, before turning on his heel and fleeing into the trees, abandoning his fallen comrades without a second thought.

For a moment, everything was still. Then, the martial artist sighed and relaxed his stance, wiping his hands on his tunic as if ridding himself of some minor inconvenience.

Wuye, still frozen in place, felt his heart pounding in his chest. He had never seen such skill, such power. The battle had been over before it even began. The man—this bodyguard—had dealt with the bandits as though they were nothing more than pests.

The camp slowly came back to life as the travelers gathered around the fire, their fear replaced by awe and relief. One of the merchants, the plump woman who had spoken to Wuye earlier, approached the martial artist, her voice shaking slightly.

"Thank the gods you were here," she said. "I had no idea you were this strong."

The martial artist shrugged, pulling his hood back to reveal a calm, weathered face. "I'm just doing my job," he replied simply. "Bandits on these roads aren't uncommon, but they rarely have the courage to attack at night. They must've been desperate."

Wuye watched in silence, still processing what had just happened. The danger, the power, the speed—it had all been so far beyond anything he had ever known. And yet, something about the martial artist's presence, his calm mastery, stirred something inside Wuye.

The man glanced in Wuye's direction, as though sensing his gaze. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Wuye felt a flicker of recognition—not that he knew this man, but that perhaps their paths were destined to cross.

Without a word, the martial artist turned back to the fire, leaving Wuye with more questions than answers.

As the camp slowly settled back down, the night resumed its quiet rhythm. But Wuye knew, deep inside, that nothing would be the same again.

Wuye silently pondered to himself "if martial artist who can move like these are real maybe the man covered in black shadows is one. But what realm could he possibly be at to do all that."

He was stepping into a world far larger—and far more dangerous—than he had ever imagined.

The night was tense in the moments after the fight, but gradually, the camp began to return to a semblance of normalcy. The merchants murmured amongst themselves, exchanging shaken glances and quiet thanks to the martial artist, who had already melted back into the shadows as though nothing had happened.

Wuye remained seated by the fire, his thoughts swirling. He couldn't take his eyes off the spot where the bandits had been defeated with such ease. He hadn't even seen the hidden guard arrive—one moment the bandits had been on the verge of attack, and the next, they were lying on the ground, broken and beaten. The sheer skill of the martial artist was awe-inspiring. Wuye knew that martial arts were common in the larger cities, but this level of power was far beyond anything he had imagined.

The fire crackled softly as one of the merchants added more wood, the flames dancing and casting flickering shadows around the camp. The other travelers, still visibly shaken, began to settle back into their spots. The plump merchant woman from earlier caught Wuye's eye, offering him a weary but reassuring smile.

"Not every night's like this," she said softly, wrapping herself in a blanket. "You get used to the roads. But having someone like him around… well, it makes the difference between life and death."

Wuye nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. He thought about the bandits and how easily they had been dispatched. Then he thought about the pursuer—the dark, monstrous figure that had destroyed his village. If the martial artist had been with them that night, would it have made a difference? Could someone even as powerful as this guard have stood up to that kind of force?

He wasn't sure. But one thing was clear: if he was going to survive in this world, he would need strength. He couldn't afford to be weak, to be someone who simply ran from danger. The Akashic Records pulsed faintly in the back of his mind, as if echoing his thoughts. Maybe, just maybe, they held the key to that strength.

As the camp settled back into an uneasy quiet, the guard returned to his post near the edge of the clearing, his presence felt more than seen. He didn't speak, didn't boast about his actions—he merely resumed his silent vigil, ever watchful, ever alert. It was clear that for him, this kind of conflict was routine, a part of his daily existence. The others took comfort in his calm, knowing that with him on watch, they could sleep a little easier.

One by one, the merchants and travelers slowly lay back down, pulling their cloaks tight against the chill of the night air. Despite the danger, exhaustion eventually claimed them, and their quiet breathing filled the camp once again. The adrenaline of the attack ebbed away, leaving only the steady rhythm of the forest and the crackling of the fire.

Wuye, still unsettled, remained awake for a while longer, his thoughts returning to the path ahead. He could feel the weight of the Akashic Records, a constant reminder of the power hidden within him. But it was a power he didn't understand, a power that could just as easily destroy him as protect him. And with the threat of the pursuer looming in his future, he knew he would need more than just the records to survive.

He glanced over at the martial artist, who stood as a silent guardian against the night's dangers. Wuye felt a flicker of determination light up inside him. If he was to survive this journey—if he was to face the pursuer when the time came—he would need to learn to fight. To defend himself. To wield the strength that lay dormant inside him.

With that thought settling in his mind, Wuye finally lay down, pulling his thin cloak tighter around his body. The forest seemed a little less menacing now, the night a little less cold. As sleep began to take him, he whispered a silent vow to himself: he would find a way to unlock the power of the Akashic Records. He would not be helpless.

And he would be ready when the darkness came for him again.