***

The leader of the guard troop grit his teeth, gripping his horsehair spear so hard his knuckles turned white. He hoped and prayed he would not regret bringing his noisy scale armor, made from several layers of bronze and tanned leather pieces. He looked to his left and right at the trembling young men before him and shook his head, as if to cast out his worry. They marched into a dark cavern, filled with the sounds of water dripping from the stalactites above into steps of puddles of water below their feet.

An older mercenary, a rear guard, walked up to his right side and whispered, instilling Qi into his voice to make it nearly impossible to detect by anyone unfamiliar with the art of Stealth Speaking.

“Leader, we can’t move quick. Nobody’s good with stealth arts like me and you, so we’ll all get found out thanks to them. Why don't you and me just go in and check it out, then leave if we can’t beat the thief with a sneak attack?”

The leader swallowed some saliva and sharply inhaled, restoring his poise for a moment.

“Though that is true, I have found after pondering the matter that this is the best chance we have to make it out of this exchange alive with as many of our men as possible.”

The veteran, a sellsword whose sole allegiance lay with fortune all his days, opened his mouth as if to cry out in protest, but shut it quietly, sighing. After all, who was he to defy his leader? He was no philanthropist and no politician. No, not even the greatest philanthropist or most ambitious politician would pursue a job that would pose a risk to his life, no matter how poorly it sat in his stomach. That was the task of fools. He scowled at his leader a bit before speaking.

“Yeah, fine. As long as I’m one of the guys that makes it out alive.”

The leader chuckled a bit and grinned, glad he was quick on the uptake.

“I’d much prefer that as well, my friend.”

The veteran scowled a bit, steeling himself for the impending reek of death.

“Don’t call me that.”

Both closed their mouths and continued marching forward in silence, the veteran fighter remaining attentive to every detail around them while the leader calmed himself down, mulling over his thoughts to stop himself from turning tail and running.

If we fail to deliver the product, the Salamander Escort Agency will lose face, and all of our and our families’ necks will be on the line. If there’s a powerful enough martial artist to not only escape our detection but kill one of our own, take our product, and kill the merchant we were protecting, they are likely at least First-Rate, or in the worst case, at the level of a disciple of a Martial Arts sect, meaning that no matter what stealth art I or anyone in this troupe used, we would be detected immediately. But why? There’s no way a warrior that powerful would be without any backing at all. If he was from those rag-tag Unorthodox Sects with this sort of strength, his lackeys would have spread his name far enough to reach our information networks. We’d have known about him. Not only that, but he would insist on collecting a toll from us, not kill us outright. If a caravan affiliated with the Seven Great Orthodox Sects was attacked and the Unorthodox Sects weren’t involved, that only leaves one organization… the Demonic Cult? Weren’t they supposed to be wiped out? How did any of them escape? And if any of them did, why did they decide to fight us so soon, when that’s basically challenging the very sects that nearly wiped them out last year?

He would have wiped the sweat off his brow if he were not holding the morale of his men atop his cast-iron spear. His sweat trickled down his forehead and down his lips until it hit the ground along with the water droplets from the stalactites in the cave around him, tempting his attention toward it like a poisonous serpent slithering over his body, ready to strike him down at the slightest movement. He dreaded any sound he made, even if he knew he would be detected without making noise. He gulped some saliva and exhaled as calmly as he could.

Was it because our cargo was valuable enough to stake their remaining forces on it? No, that wouldn’t make sense. The merchant we transported was self-made and relatively successful, so if his wares were that valuable, he would have been far more secretive about this trip, and he would have hired directly from a Great Sect, not a lower-level group from an affiliate of a Great Sect. So, for his wares’ worth, he was expecting only common bandits, which was why he didn’t hire the higher-ups in our organization or directly from one of the Seven Great Orthodox Sects. To provoke the Seven Great Orthodox Sects for cheap wares is a foolish decision, even for the idiotic higher-ups of the Demonic Cult. That means that the one that attacked us was a rogue. No powerful martial artists go rogue in the Demonic Cult, which means this one is simply the tail of a dragon and likely only knows some basic breathing techniques and forms for Outer Disciples.

He smiled a bit, his heart rate calming.

Given that he attacked a common merchant without knowing what his wares were, he could be in a state of insanity after Qi deviation, the greatest fool I have ever seen, or after something that every merchant would carry. The first case is highly unlikely, since he would have rampaged and attacked all of us instead of stolen, and the possibility of the second case closes any chance that we have of negotiation. Well, that doesn’t matter, since we came to kill him, anyway. As for being after things that any merchant would carry, those would naturally be food, water, medical supplies, and money. Any martial artist could easily procure food, and this cave is filled with drinkable water. A Demonic Cultist hiding out in a cave would not likely need money, since he could procure everything he needed on his own, aside from medicinal herbs. But, that is only under the condition that he is unaware of what plants are poisonous and which ones are medicinal, which would indicate that he is low on the totem pole, and was a poor student. Why would he need to guarantee that he could get medicinal herbs, when attacking a merchant would rouse suspicion, and why didn’t he wipe us out if he was at a level where he could kill someone before we noticed him, even if our guards were down? He must be critically injured, and have already been relatively weak by the standards of the Demonic Cult. He might still be far stronger than the average martial artist, but with this many people, it’s at least possible to take someone like that on, if my theory is right. We’ll just need some-

He glanced at the young Yǚchén, the newest in his troupe. He looked entirely different from every other member, being as fair-skinned as a newborn babe, short enough to be entirely obscured by a horse when standing upright, and as thin as a river reed. His hands were smooth as silk, and his skin was bereft of any scars. Unlike the rest of his cohorts, the young boy smiled in anticipation, shifting to a more immobile, combat-ready stance as they marched into the cavern. He was preparing to drop his torch and hold his spear with both hands. The leader sighed.

There’s no way around it. We’ll need some sacrifices. That Yǚchén… he might be quick on his feet, but he has no stamina. He is brave, but to the extent that it is brashness. He’s by far the most inexperienced and foolhardy of all the newest members that we got for cheap to fill the head count set by the Guardians’ Association, barely better than the common porters we left outside. He’s the most expendable of all my men.

He resolved himself.

Don’t hold a grudge against me. Blame your bad luck.

Such thoughts ran through his head as he was about to instruct young Yǚchén to stay within the distance of a spear's thrust from the group, when they suddenly heard a scream so guttural that their blood ceased to flow from their hearts, instead flowing in from a Baltic sea. A common thought ran through all of their minds:

Did someone just die?

The vanguard continued to face forward, their feet petrified and fused with the ground, while the rearguard took stock of their men, recounting over and over as they could barely see past the violent shivering of their heads. One spoke.

“W-we’ve lost none, Leader.”

The leader then wondered again.

Then who screamed? Was it the thief? Or if it was truly a Demonic Cultist, perhaps it was a human sacrifice? Wait… if it was… that means we’ve stepped into an area where an altar was set up, which means that in the worst case…

His eyes widened, and his veins began to bulge from his grip strength, his weapon rising up and down as he struggled to calm his rapidly expanding and contracting chest. He cursed under his breath.

We’ve walked right into their home base.

He shook off his fear for a moment and looked deeper into the cave, hoping that he was overthinking things.

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Suddenly, a silhouette bounced between the stalactites over their heads, bringing darkness in its wake, quenching all of their torches with the water that jumped into the air in surprise as it darted past. The guard leader hesitated for a moment, confused as to what he should do.

His men, all experienced in the craft of soldiery, ducked their heads and remained still in the darkness. They laid down their soaked torches and concealed themselves with their weapons unsheathed, awaiting his command. That is, all except one: the young Yǚchén. He had fallen onto his backside in shock and frantically splashed around in the ankle-deep puddle he sat in, patting the ground like a babe learning to crawl. The leader would have scolded that young boy in another situation, but in that moment the commander could not have been happier, grinning gaily like a child whose father let him out of a punishment that his mother gave him for his actions.

“Everyone, chase after that thief! Do not let our face be so easily lost!”

Those who lay in wait for his command deftly ran and leapt after the assailant, quickly making their way up to the surface, leaving Yǚchén behind in complete darkness.

***

Yǚchén looked around and saw nothing but darkness.

He stumbled about, trying to feel any dry torches nearby for him to light with his left hand while his right hand reached into his leather bag for his emergency talismans. However, they were soaked and tore as his hands desperately clawed at them. He began to panic, sweat dripping from him and his chest heaving as if his entire body were weeping, while his face stayed still. From deep within the darkness, he heard a scratching noise, as if a wolf were dragging its jagged nails across the stone floor while prowling around its prey in the dead of night, ready to strike at any moment. Yǚchén gasped, holding his breath and remaining still, realizing he was making too much noise while rummaging around. He tried to calm himself.

It was foolish to assume that someone who attacked the Salamander Troupe had no backup at all. Should I find a place to hide and wait for my group to come back? No, who am I kidding? They were the ones who left me behind in this place when there was another voice from deeper in the cave, meaning there could have been an accomplice. They left me, the weakest warrior, alone to deal with that. They aren’t trying to get to the bottom of this or find out who stole from us; they’re just saving face. There won’t be any search party for a recruit as new and weak as me. I can’t stay still. I can’t go back because I don’t know the path, and taking the wrong one could lead to death by starvation if I took too many wrong turns. Deeper in the cave, I might find someone in need of help or I might find someone hostile. If they need help, they are probably either not able-bodied or are imprisoned, which means in either case that I can eat their supplies, or even their body if worse comes to worst. If they are hostile, then they are likely the thief’s accomplice, and if this place is housing two people, there are almost certainly supplies somewhere. I could hide in the dark and take from their food source, since their guard is going to be lax in a place this hidden. Then, I can take a light talisman, track the thief’s footsteps to find the path, and get out of here.

He punched his right leg, determination setting into it like an invisible brand.

Further in it is. I’ll wait for a bit for my eyes to adjust and move.

He cupped his hands over his ears, listening for any more signs of life from within the cavern. However, he heard nothing more, only the constant dripping and flowing of water from around him.

Maybe they’re dead or asleep? No matter what they are, I’ve still got to go forward. I haven’t come across any forks in the road, so I’m still going in the right direction.

He gathered his spear and made sure his knife was still hidden in the folds of his uniform, then marched forward.

He slowly made his way down the cavern, being careful not to kick any rocks he saw, though he often still did so by mistake. The pebbles would bounce further and further down the declining path, echoing as they went.

He reached a small clearing, with the only way further being a tunnel so small that he would need to crawl into it to proceed. It was far too cramped of a space for him to safely bring his spear with him, unless he wanted to play with the idea of becoming trapped and dying while being unable to move because his spear was lodged into a rock fixture. However, at the same time, having any armament at all would be instrumental to his survival, considering the strength of hidden weapons against newer martial artists. The idea of leaving his spear behind overwhelmed him with melancholy. He cursed his circumstance and sat down on a large stone.

He held his trusty spear gingerly, reminiscing. The wood was on the verge of breaking, rot from its many years of dereliction and wear from its few years of use encroaching on the duramen of the spear. Beneath the red, twisted cord he tied near its tip was a carving of a crest in the ancient language. He could barely see it, but he felt it with his hand, holding back tears. He whispered the name beneath his breath.

“Lotus.”

I’m sorry, I’ll restore you soon.

He laid his dagger on the shaft of the javelin, breathing out and preparing to begin sawing it, hoping to at least bring some part of it with him as a spare weapon.

“...No.”

He relented, and instead hid the spear behind the stone he sat on, since he could still take on an injured person with just the small dagger he kept on his person. He gulped, hoping he made the right decision, and crawled into the tunnel to continue his journey.

He could not freely move his arms or his legs, crawling upwards at a steep angle. Droplets of water from the smooth stone dribbled down his body, wetting it as he continued onward, his body warmth escaping him. In some parts, he could not fully extend his arms, but could only slowly move by rocking his whole body side to side, while in others, he had the liberty to at least extend them somewhat. However, there were no handholds in the steep tunnel, so much of the force had to come from his limbs, toned and strong from practicing martial arts. He felt as if he were a small animal trapped in a hollow bamboo stalk following a cold winter’s rain, wriggling and using everything he could to keep moving. The flat side of his knife pressed against his chest and stomach with each movement. He was a bit afraid that it might cut through the string portions of its mismatched sheath.

He continued crawling upwards, and spotted ahead a great deal of water rushing by. He concluded that he was climbing up an upside-down y-shaped tunnel from the short end, with water rushing down to the other side. He paused for a moment, hoping he could tell by sound which path to take. From the bottom tunnel’s end echoed sounds of the water crashing into a small reservoir below, as well as the rustling of fabric of some sort. There it was. His ticket out. He climbed toward it, eventually heading downward at a 60 degree angle.

The tunnel began to clear a bit so that although it was difficult for him to hold himself up, he had some range of motion. He saw at the end of the tunnel a clearing, illuminated by a deep blue glow, as if moonlight had entered the cave after passing through a sapphire. He heard shaky breaths from within, and tried to back out of the tunnel, but quickly realized his overzealous mistake.

He had entered the narrow tunnel face-first in order to see incoming threats and whether he could emerge yet, expecting to remain upright. However, he was now trapped upside down in a slippery tunnel, while not being lodged in enough for the tight squeeze to keep his body from falling. His arms were exceptionally weak and he did not have the space to effectively use his legs to push himself upwards over the ridge to the upward-facing tunnel. He was trapped, and now had to sustain himself nearly upside down using only his arm and leg strength.

If he had to wait for long, his blood would enter his brain, possibly incapacitating him for life. Still, he had to wait for a chance to see the caliber of his opponent, or wait for them to sleep. He listened and heard groan after groan, as well as the shifting of clothing that was… satin? What was a noble doing here? Though most were harmless, there were a few from clans that prided themselves on their fighting strength, meaning Yǚchén could possibly be killed quicker than he could react, even if the martial artist were injured. He stayed there to see which one was the case, hoping to maybe see them meditating or doing a sword form to gauge their skill level and the amount of Qi they possessed.

Cold cave water washed past his body, depriving him of his warmth.

He held his position for as long as he could, but he did not catch a glimpse of the noble. He looked a bit closer, and began to see double. His consciousness began to escape him from the steep incline. He spat his saliva down with the next wave of water, trying to stop his arms from convulsing.

I… how can… I can’t… No…

Suddenly, his hand slipped, and with it so too did his consciousness.

***

The liquid from the gash on his arm felt like it burst forth, crying out to any who would listen. He kept screaming, watching it as it smoked, as if it were engulfed further in this feeling. He begged in indiscernible gibberish for it to just go away. He knew no one was left to listen, yet the prospect of being alone terrified him far more than this newly discovered sensation of “pain,” and so he continued howling.

His blood slithered across the floor and up his arm into his smoking gash. Beneath the rising plumes from his wound, the sinews in his arm reached out to those on the other side of his exposed bone, wriggling individually, flailing about in the air, hoping to touch another of its kind on the other side of the chasm in his skin. As they connected, they expanded outwards until his bone was covered, then his skin began to likewise stretch out, until finally he recovered.

He gasped for air, lying down on the ground, his face a quarter stooped in a cold puddle. Instead of the burning pain, he now felt a strange numbness, as if nothing ever happened, yet he remembered everything so vividly it felt like it was still there. However, he looked at the wound and found nothing.

He slowly picked himself up with his arms, and saw his mirror image in the water in the ground below him. He leaned his back against the stone pedestal that he had rolled off of, staring at the rippling reflection as it stabilized. He did not know what he was looking at, yet he still knew it was himself.

He reached up to his pallid countenance, gliding his fingers down his cheek. It felt as cold as the stone pedestal he leaned his back against. His skin was the pale blue of an early morning’s sky, and his glossy, yellow eyes looked as if they were two full moons, suspended in this azure canvas. His pupils blended into his opaque, foggy irises, with barely any semblance of their once-hazel hue. The white of his eyes had dried out near his pupils with the setting of tache-noire, leaving benighted slashes across his eyes in their wake and making it look as if each of his pupils had metamorphosed into the silhouettes of beetles, pinned to boards.

His body was slim but well-built, covered in scars from before he was raised from the dead. His hair was as dark as midnight, disheveled and wet from his tumble into the puddle.

He looked around the water, and saw a white, curved slab the size of his face, with openings where his eyes would be if he put it on. It almost looked as if it were a molded replica of a stalwart marble citadel, and from the openings for his eyes, archers could fire their bolts.

He reached for it, instinct controlling his body, and reached out to it, kneeling on the ground as if he were a beggar, searching for any morsel that the earth would deign to give him. He touched the surface of the simple object, and shivered. He knew what this was meant to be. It was a-

“Mask.”

He dragged it a bit on the ground as he picked it up, producing a sound as if two stones had glided across one another. He put it on his face, and bandages unfurled from within the mask, fastening it to him, and wrapping around his whole body beneath his clothes, concealing his skin. The wrapping of the mask was so quick that it sent ripples through the water like a tropical storm over the sea, obscuring his reflection. The water in the puddle calmed.

Every part of his skin other than his yellow eyes and his thick hair were covered, but it perfectly covered his ears such that they were perfectly visible, not pressed against his skull as other bandaging would have done. He looked like a ghost, haunting the caverns he had awoken in.

He stood up, but just as he did, he heard a splash, and hid behind the rock once more. He looked beyond it. In the water lay a strange creature, which had the same form as him, yet it was fundamentally different from him.

Ah, that was it. Though unconscious, it was still alive.