Chương 19: Willow Ford

The next few days unfurled in a scroll of countryside splendour. Rice paddies stepped down the hillsides in careful terraces, and when the wind was still, each basin became a mirror for the sky. Egrets picked their way through the water with a delicacy that made them look like they waded through clouds rather than mud. Bamboo groves lined the narrow roads, their young canes bending just enough for travellers to pass beneath. Mingxuan could hear water chuckling over stone where it ran under the old bridges.

The wildlife here had a brightness to it, a kind of urgency that spoke of the season. He saw a herd of spotted deer ghost through the trees one dawn, their hooves scattering the petals that had fallen in the night. Overhead, larks wove patterns in the air that were too quick and intricate to follow. Once, a pair of butterflies drifted past them, their wings threaded with qi. They left small sparks in their wake that floated down to the grass and left pale marks where they touched. They didn't hurry.

Xinyi walked at a mortal's pace, and every now and then she would pause to adjust the sling or shift the kittens from one arm to the other. Yin and Yang would complain until her fingers found the right spot behind their ears. Then they would purr and curl into contented balls. Mingxuan found he didn't mind matching his pace to hers. He had nowhere he needed to be, no reason to rush toward whatever waited ahead.

On the fourth morning since leaving Yiren's farm, Mingxuan woke before dawn and felt something shift in the world. The air trembled, though there was no wind. Before his eyes, the Celestial Cycle turned from Water to Wood, the sky changing like someone was pouring paint across a vast canvas. Dawn steadily unfurled in braided striations of jade, malachite, and palest chartreuse, each new breath of wind combing a fresh tint into the heavens until every conceivable shade of green drifted overhead in slow, lazy gyres.

The change coaxed the land awake as well. Sprigs that had crouched unnoticed beside their parent stems now began to thrust eager fingers through the sodden soil as the minutes ticked by; willow catkins fattened visibly, and the meadow's grasses gained a gloss that caught the first light like lacquer. Even the ragged edges of yesterday's campfire ring had sprouted tiny, defiant shoots, as though unwilling to wait for charcoal to cool before reclaiming the scar. Wildlife answered in kind.

The birds sang like they were drunk on the change. Hares chased each other in wild zigzags through the grass. Deep in the reeds, he saw a stag snap a young tree in half just to taste the sap that bled from its heartwood. Insects swarmed earlier than made sense, their wings catching the green-tinged light. Mingxuan found he preferred Wood's insistence to Water's heavy rain. Certainly he preferred it to Blood, whose memory still left a bad taste in his mouth. Wood Qi felt like potential itself.

It smelled of sap rising, of seedlings pushing through dark soil, of new leaves uncurling. Even the earth seemed to shrink inward, giving up its moisture to feed the roots that reached upward. He spent that morning sitting quietly, letting himself feel the change. But he wasn't alone with his thoughts for long. Xinyi woke soon after sunrise, yawning around a smile.

She gave only the briefest of glances up at the sky to acknowledge the new state of the world, as used to the Celestial Cycle as any native of the Elemental Realm was, and went about her morning routine as if nothing unusual had happened. Once she was more awake, she set the kittens down on the damp grass. Yin darted after something only she could see, while Yang investigated a beetle with scholarly seriousness.

"They seem to like Wood," Xinyi observed, pulling her cloak tighter against the morning chill.

"Can you blame them? Everything is busy being alive." Mingxuan watched the kittens wobble through their adventures in the grass.

"It certainly encourages growth," he said, smiling at the two creatures that were each barely large enough to fit in Xinyi's palm.

"And they need all the growth they can get."

"Wood is one of my favourites," she said. She knelt to rescue a beetle from Yang's exploratory paw.

"I remember the first time I really noticed what the Cycle could do to the world. I was five, maybe six. Mother kept a pot of pink chrysanthemums outside our door. One day it began to fade. I don't remember which Qi was dominant then, but the plant disagreed with it. The leaves drooped. The petals turned the colour of old blood. I thought it was dying." She lifted the beetle to a safer patch of grass.

"Then Wood came. Overnight, the petals brightened as if someone had painted them fresh. I liked that. A second chance at life."

"Is that why you became a healer?" Mingxuan asked, settling down beside her.

"It nudged me that way." She traced a finger along a blade of grass, watching it straighten under Wood's influence.

"Growth, renewal. Those are at the core of medicine, I think. My second master once told me that the best healers often have Wood-aligned Qi." He listened, feeling the world breathe around them. The Death Qi in his dantian lay cool and untouched, yet even it seemed to hum in response to Wood's pulse. He might have said something about that, but the morning felt too clear for such talk. Instead, he said, "Travel would have been lonelier without you." Xinyi looked up at him, her eyes the colour of tea.

"I suspect it would have been impossible without me," she teased. Then her expression softened.

"I'm glad I came. It feels like I've learned more about you in a week than I did in the last year." They shared breakfast in an easy quiet. The porridge was sweetened with some of Yiren's honey. The kittens worried tiny pieces from their bowls and then pounced on each other, squeaking, which was the only music the meal needed. Mingxuan's spoon moved mechanically. His thoughts kept pulling ahead to the road like an impatient scout. Not long now.

Less than a week, perhaps, and he would have to face civilization again. Before they left Yiren's farm, they had decided to make for Ironhold. It wasn't large compared to the Capital of Ox, let alone the Central Capital of the Golden Zodiac Empire, but it was big enough to have respectable branches of Cerulean Sky and Verdant Monastery. Disciples from Soaring Crane were said to visit occasionally, too. Three possibilities, each with their own dangers.

Cerulean Sky had libraries catalogued by centuries of scholars, but Liu Wen's memories carried countless lectures condemning heresy. The upper ranks of Cerulean Sky seemed particularly zealous in their hunts for cultivators they considered unorthodox. Approaching them had advantages, but it carried the most risk. He knew less about the other two major groups in Ox Country. Neither would greet a Death cultivator with smiles and tea, but they were unlikely to be as thorough in their investigations as Cerulean Sky.

There were other organizations, of course. Smaller sects, though he couldn't name any. Heretical sects, for another. Liu Wen had mentioned Fuschia Thorn, an organization in conflict with Cerulean Sky. It had been a cultivator from their group who struck him down and stole his dantian. Joining them felt like a betrayal, and Mingxuan imagined he would face just as much danger there besides. He couldn't bring himself to believe all unorthodox cultivators were murderous madmen, but caution seemed wise.

It all came down to a lack of knowledge, and that was why they were heading to Ironhold. Gossip and rumour and scripture would be plentiful there. He could gauge the dangers before stumbling into them. Having a set destination was nice after a week of travel with only a vague goal, but it came with problems he hadn't expected. Willow Ford lay somewhere beyond the next fold of hills, and with each mile the knot behind his sternum tightened. Ignoring it was becoming harder.

It was ridiculous, and his annoyance at his own childishness almost equalled the anxiety itself, leaving him caught between two uncomfortable emotions. As they packed their camp, Xinyi cast him a sidelong glance.

"You're quiet this morning."

"Just thinking." He strapped the bedroll to his pack with sharper tugs than necessary.

"It's irrational. My head knows a town is just buildings and people. But my nerves keep remembering Seventh Stone."

"Irrational feelings are still feelings," she said, folding her blanket into a neat square. Her smile was small but steady.

"They deserve room to breathe, just not to rule. As always, you can talk to me if you wish." The offer didn't untie the knot inside him, but it loosened it. He sighed, then managed a wry smile.

"In a way, Ironhold worries me less than Willow Ford and the other villages we'll pass through. In a city, you're just another face in the crowd, easily forgotten. Small places remember new faces." Xinyi stepped close, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"No one knows you there," she said, gentle but firm.

"And even if they did, you're not a hunted criminal, Mingxuan. You've done nothing wrong."

"I know," he said, though it came out sullen.

"I just don't want to get my hopes up that I'll be able to fade into anonymity and feel like I'm not a social pariah, for once. If I don't let myself believe I'll be able to sleep in a warm bed in an inn, I can't be disappointed when I'm turned away."

"Hm. Perhaps I should have been more aggressive in defending you?" Xinyi mused, tapping a finger against her bottom lip.

"Caustic words convinced many villagers not to speak ill of you in my hearing, but now I wonder if some well-placed violence wouldn't have helped."

"Please don't dirty your hands on my account." Xinyi ignored him, clenching her fist and shaking it toward the heavens.

"This time, I won't shirk my duty. Any resident of Willow Ford who dares disrespect my Mingxuan will face the wrath of the great Xinyi!" She looked at him and smiled softly.

"Not that they will. Because they have no reason to."

"They might."

"Think optimistic thoughts." He drew a breath and let it out. The kittens mewed at their feet, impatient to continue.

"You make it sound simple."

"Simple is not the same as easy," she replied.

"Besides, if the villagers greet us with pitchforks, I'll prescribe them a tonic so foul they'll beg forgiveness." He snorted, feeling the tension ease by a thread.

"A cruel healer."

"An effective one." She settled Yin and Yang into their sling and slipped her arm through his. The kittens were all wiggling claws and fearless mews, but she paid them no mind.

"Come. The sooner we walk, the sooner your overactive mind can be proven wrong." They resumed the road beneath emerald sunlight. Wood Qi painted every hedge with wild growth. Blossoms opened faster than eyes could track. Vines tested the stone mile markers for purchase. Yet Mingxuan saw little of it. His gaze kept jumping forward, measuring the shrinking distance until he would have to face whatever waited ahead. Farms dotted the landscape with increasing frequency.

Low tiled roofs, vegetable plots thriving under Wood's blessing, smoke rising from hearth fires. At each homestead they exchanged courtesies. A night in a hayloft here, a bowl of barley stew there. Ordinary kindnesses that should have calmed him, yet anxiety clung like burrs. One afternoon they reached a farm bordered by enormous flowers. The family offered shelter without haggling, grateful for Xinyi's ointment that eased their grandfather's swollen joints. Nothing else happened.

No lurking shades, no celestial beasts, only the honest labour of farming. Mingxuan lay awake on the loft's wooden slats, wondering whether to feel disappointed or relieved. In the darkness, the kittens nestled against his neck, their tiny breaths puffing against his chin. Morning brought more of the same. Rolling fields, a chorus of larks, and a road that seemed carved from promise. Yet with every unremarkable mile, his unease grew.

He rehearsed introductions in his head, but discarded each as too thin or too bold. The memory of Seventh Stone's wary stares haunted him. At the time, he hadn't thought their distrust had left any mark on his soul. He had never been one who yearned for company. Not of the living, at least. Yet his anxiety tightened with every step. A few mornings later, Xinyi found him standing rigid at the fence line of the remote farm where they had bartered for a bed, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

"Talk to me," she said, though he was sure she already knew what he was thinking about. He exhaled, not daring to look back at her.

"What if they recognise what I am?"

"They won't."

"But if—""Mingxuan." She placed both palms on his shoulders, grounding him.

"Fear is just the mind's way of asking for information. We'll gather what we need. If Willow Ford is unsafe, we move on. Together." The word together soothed him like a balm. He nodded, and they shouldered their packs. By midday the landscape had gentled into broad meadows grazed by spotted cattle. The road widened, pressed smooth by cartwheels. A pair of travelling potters passed, their cart tinkling with unfired clay cups. They told a story of bandits farther east but spoke warmly of Willow Ford's market.

Mingxuan only learned this later when Xinyi repeated the conversation for his benefit. He had heard none of it at the time. The road crested a low ridge sometime in the afternoon, and there, nestled where twin bends of the Jade-Scale River met, waited Willow Ford. Grey-blue roof tiles glittered like fish scales beneath the Wood-bright sky. Stone walls rose in gentle tiers around a single cobbled square.

At its heart stood a modest wooden drum tower, its eaves upturned at each of its three tiers, its lacquer flaking to reveal cedar beneath. Closer to the water, a modest market spread beneath reed awnings. He could see merchants in straw hats haggling while children chased red kites between stalls. Squinting, he saw the shrine Yiren had mentioned, its lintel carved with leaping carp.

Votive ribbons fluttered from willow switches planted in earthen jars, offerings to the nameless spirit that kept the floods gentle and the fish plentiful, or so the legends claimed. South of the buildings, the river broadened into a natural ford where flat stones shone like jade. The ancient willow that gave the village half its name leaned over the shallows on the far side like an old sentry, its trailing curtain of leaves brushing travellers' shoulders as they picked their way across.

Oxcarts waited their turn, hooves splashing, while farmers bowed to the tree before entering or leaving, trusting its silent benediction for safe passage. The village was easily ten times the size of Seventh Stone. Home to a few thousand people at least, if he had to guess. It was larger than anything he had seen in this life. But it wasn't the village that stole his voice. Far beyond in the distance among the mountains, a vast shadow broke from a peak and unfurled wings that caught the sunlight like mirrors.

An enormous bird, larger than any earthly creature had a right to be, heaved itself skyward. Its plumage shimmered opal and jade, changing colour with every beat of its mighty wings. It thrust into the clouds and vanished. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. They stood frozen. Even the kittens were silent. Wind whispered over the ridge, stirring the hems of their travelling clothes.

"Was that...?" Xinyi began, her words falling short.

"A Soaring Crane disciple's mount?" Mingxuan finished. He gripped his staff until his knuckles whitened.

"Surely not. What kind of person could ever hope to tame such a beast?" Xinyi exhaled, awe softening into determination.

"Come on," she said, setting her boots to the downward track.

"The world won't stop unfolding just because we stare at it." They descended the ridge in silence. Mingxuan kept pace half a step behind, his staff clicking against stones slick with moss. With every footfall, the thought of Willow Ford pressed harder against the walls of his calm. By the time the river's hissing burble replaced the wind, dread had woven itself into the rhythm of his pulse. An earthen road led them to the village's outskirts, where vegetable plots and duck ponds occupied the flood land.

Xinyi cheerfully greeted the first farmer they passed, a woman stout as a pillar, hauling baskets of watercress. They received a bright yet brisk "good morning" in return. Mingxuan managed a nod, but his throat closed around the courtesy he meant to offer. They walked on. A woman in a wide-brimmed bamboo hat paused from hoeing furrows to greet Xinyi, wiping sweat from her brow as she asked after the kittens' health.

Xinyi offered advice for blight, and the woman rewarded them with the promise of juicy peaches if they passed this way again. Moments later, an old man guiding a water buffalo lifted his straw hat when Xinyi asked about the ford. He assured them the river ran gentle today, thanks to the shrine's favour. Farther along, a flower seller carrying buckets of marigolds toward the market slowed to let them pass, trading compliments on the blooms for a quick scratch behind Yin's twitching ears.

Then a pair of teenagers, who seemed to be apprentice potters judging by the clay on their elbows, stopped to admire the kittens peeping from Xinyi's sling. They chatted amiably for a while before going about their business. A travelling monk brought up the rear, palm raised in benediction. Xinyi returned the gesture, and the monk tipped his basket-shaped hat to Mingxuan before ambling on, prayer beads clicking with every step. With each exchange, Mingxuan felt the cords around his lungs slacken.

The locals' eyes rested on him with plain curiosity, not the suspicion he had braced for. By the time the road bent toward the edge of town, he found himself almost hoping the next person they met would ask a question, just so he could test the strength of his newly won calm. At the next encounter, this one with an older man carrying bark shavings in a hemp sack, Mingxuan found courage enough to voice a question himself.

"We seek an inn," he said, surprised at how even his voice sounded.

"One that keeps a quiet room." The man brightened, explaining that the River-Mist Inn stood just beyond the market square.

"A travelling merchant and his children set out at dawn, so there's vacancy. Mistress An is fair with her prices and brews an almond tea you'll remember." He gave directions punctuated by sweeping gestures. They thanked him and moved on toward the cluster of low eaves and fluttering banners that formed the market. Mingxuan's shoulders uncurled inch by inch.

"You were trying to calm me," he murmured to Xinyi when they paused before a stall of pickled lotus roots.

"With your smiles and your questions."

"It was nothing mysterious," she said, choosing a packet of rice crackers.

"Politeness, a healer's stock-in-trade." She tapped his knuckles with the crackers.

"But if you're grateful, you can pay for these." He startled himself with an honest laugh that escaped before he could stop it, and fished a coin from his pouch. The vendor bowed, pleased. The River-Mist Inn proved to be a timber-framed hall wrapped around a courtyard of koi ponds and potted bamboo. Mistress An, a woman with hair the colour of rain clouds and a smile that suggested lifelong practice, welcomed them after one measuring glance. The room she offered looked out on the courtyard.

Paper screens bore ink paintings of cranes rising from reeds, and the woven floor mats smelled of new rush. Inside, Mingxuan set his pack on the lacquered chest and sat on the edge of the futon. The tension that had camped between his shoulder blades for days finally dissolved, leaving a curious lightness in its wake. He laughed again, softer this time, covering his face with his palms.

"All that turmoil for nothing," he said through his hands. Xinyi slid the screen shut, muffling the inn's gentle bustle.

"Not for nothing. Fear kept you alert, just not forever. Now it has served its purpose, it can rest." She placed the kittens on the bedding. They immediately began exploring. He dropped his hands, meeting her gaze.

"Thank you. Truly. For every kind word you spend on strangers, and on me." She shrugged, but her eyes shone.

"It's easy to speak kindly when the world answers in kind. Come, unpack. We can search the market for some hot food. Real food. I'm tired of porridge." Mingxuan watched Yin attempt to scale a pillow while Yang executed a dignified inspection of the floor mat's weave. Anticipation fluttered in his chest as dread gave way to eagerness. A town meant colour, sound, rumours, perhaps even a merchant with wares of a more mystical nature. Now that his worries had proved unfounded, possibilities opened in his thoughts.

They ventured from the River-Mist in late afternoon. Outside, the market square pulsed with the rhythm of small commerce. Cleavers thunked against chopping boards. Spice peddlers shook cones of powdered ginger into brass scales. A boy barely tall enough to see over his tray hawked pastries in a voice already rough with ambition. Mingxuan breathed in the mingled aromas and allowed himself, for once, to be simply another traveller in need of dinner. Xinyi made introductions as naturally as breathing.

She greeted a herb vendor whose stall was perfumed with bundled mugwort and licorice root, and within moments they were discussing remedies for autumn cough. While they spoke, Mingxuan ran a finger over a twist of dried fruit, feeling the stubborn life still curled inside the brittle skin. The vendor insisted he take a sample "for the road ahead," and refused payment with a gap-toothed grin that showed more generosity than most townsfolk back home had ever spent on him. They moved from stall to stall, never rushed.

At a booth of painted wind chimes, Xinyi admired the craftsmanship. The artisan, an elderly woman whose hands trembled until she touched her tools, explained that willow wood took the ink more willingly when Wood Qi ruled. A fisherman was demonstrating a collapsible bamboo trap, its latticework opening and closing like the petals of a mechanical lotus. Children squealed as a silver carp splashed back into the pond between demonstrations.

Mingxuan and Xinyi lingered, laughing with the crowd, until the fisherman noticed their interest and spoke of Ironhold's grand fish market, where such devices fetched triple the price.

"Watch for the red-roofed pier," he advised, tipping his hat.

"That's where traders from the capital dock." Rumour proved the square's true currency. From a cooper, they learned that Ironhold's walls were being refitted with new runes to reinforce the defensive array. From a silk merchant, they heard of a travelling troupe whose masks were said to be carved from iolite. Everywhere they turned, strangers asked where they came from, where they were bound, what stories they carried. Mingxuan discovered that replying became easier each time.

They ate steamed dumplings, cooked meats, and wheat noodles, and felt fuller than they had in weeks. It was all a little too much, if Mingxuan was honest. Rich food had hardly been common in Seventh Stone. He was unused to such lavish displays, though he was well aware that this place was far from lavish. Eventually, a shopkeeper carving characters into gourds pointed them toward Elder Shao, keeper of the village archives and reckoned the oldest mind in Willow Ford.

They found him beneath a persimmon tree behind the drum tower, brush poised over a ledger of taxes paid in grain. His beard swept the bench like a snowdrift. His eyes, sharp as a magpie's, missed nothing. Elder Shao welcomed them with formality, serving tea from a smooth celadon pot while they introduced themselves as wanderers seeking knowledge of the road to Ironhold. He spoke first of distances. Three days by cart to the ford at Stone-Foot Bridge if luck was on their side.

Eleven days along the governor's causeway, with plenty of inns and rest stops lining the road. Then he told them of seasonal hazards. Early frosts and the bandits who haunted the pass at Black Pine Gorge. Xinyi listened, her quill flying across her pocket notebook, pausing only to clarify which milestones hid the deepest ruts. When Mingxuan asked, gently, about cultivation groups, the elder's weathered brows knitted.

"It's well known that Cerulean Sky keeps a satellite headquarters in Ironhold. Verdant Monastery maintains a few gardens there as well. But if you want recent news, two youths of the Soaring Crane Sect lodged here last week." He sipped his tea, eyes narrowing at the memory.

"Polite lads. One so quiet you might forget his presence, the other all smiles and courtesy." His eyes narrowed further.

"Well, then again, appearances can be deceiving with those cultivator types. The pair could have been twice my age, for all I know. Bah. Regardless, they asked after rumours. Strange illnesses, livestock found bloodless, travellers missing. Demon signs, they said, though they named no place." Mingxuan's pulse stuttered.

"Did they mention why their search led them here?" Shao shook his head.

"Only that an elder of their order sensed a disturbance stirring somewhere in this back end of Ox Country. They sought clues to follow, I suppose. I asked them to lend their swords against bandits troubling the north road if they were interested in people disappearing, but their mission allowed no detour, it seems." A hush settled. Mingxuan felt the weight of Seventh Stone press like a thumb between his ribs.

If Soaring Crane's elder had sensed the demon's he'd faced, and the two disciples made their way to the village... Xinyi covered his tightening fist with her own.

"Did they leave word of where they would go next?" she asked the elder.

"They didn't, I'm afraid," Shao said, glancing between them.

"Though I hear they went west when they slipped away." The direction of Seventh Stone. Mingxuan shut his eyes and resisted the urge to sigh. He thanked the man, offering a modest donation to the village shrine in his name. Elder Shao accepted with a scholar's nod, folding the coin into his ledger before resuming his tally of persimmons. They left the courtyard beneath a rain of ripe fruit thudding into the grass. Mingxuan kept pace at Xinyi's side, the elder's words clanging beneath his calm.

The thought that someone could sense a demon's birth unsettled him more than the creature itself had, in a way. He had killed one monster, yes, but if Soaring Crane arrived at Seventh Stone's ruins and traced the signature of Death Qi back to him...

"You're frowning again," Xinyi observed as they passed a stall of candied plums. She bought two, pressing one into his hand.

"I'm thinking again. Perhaps too loudly." He took a bite. Sweetness burst over his tongue. She hadn't mentioned the implications of Shao's words, so he decided he wouldn't either. Not directly, anyway.

"It seems Ironhold will not lack intrigue."

"Nor will we," she replied, steering him toward the bridge that arched over the carp pond.

"But intrigue can wait until tomorrow. Today we are villagers." He let her guide him, allowing the crowd's easy flow to carry his worries downstream. The afternoon lengthened into early evening, and together they drifted beneath paper lanterns blooming amber in the twilight. They sampled rice cakes spread with plum jam, traded idle gossip beside a stall selling patterned scarves, and let curiosity lead them in widening spirals through the lattice of lanes.

Children darted past, chasing fireflies newly woken by Wood's humid dusk. Elders sat on low stools spinning yarns about jade carp larger than oxen that slept in the river's deepest bend. Mingxuan found himself adding laughter to conversations rather than silence, an unfamiliar music that stirred the kittens into playful chirps from the safety of Xinyi's sling.

They lingered by the shrine to the river spirit at the ford, watching villagers tie fresh offerings to the railing while murmuring petitions for safe crossing. Xinyi bowed, unfurling a small strip of linen she had kept from Yiren's sewing basket, and knotted it among the other ribbons. Mingxuan mirrored her with a simple nod, choosing no prayer of his own. For once, he felt content to leave endings to the spirit's keeping.

Hours later, sated and pleasantly weary, they navigated lantern-lit streets back to the River-Mist Inn. Mistress An bid them good night in a whisper, mindful of sleeping guests. Inside their room, lime-tinted moonlight spilled through the lattice in delicate grids across the mats. Yin and Yang tumbled free of the sling, patrolling the perimeter with wide-eyed wonder before curling like commas in the crook of Xinyi's knee as she loosened her hair.

"Today went better than your fears allowed," she teased, her voice soft so as not to disturb the other guests. Mingxuan brushed a thumb over the wooden frame of the paper screen, feeling its fine grain.

"It did. I almost managed to forget what I am."

"You're still what you are, only happier," she corrected, unknotting the ribbon at her collar. She slipped beneath the quilt, sleep tugging at her lashes. Mingxuan dimmed the lamp and sat cross-legged on the mat, back straight, palms resting on his knees. The inn settled around him. A distant creak of timber, a last clink of crockery downstairs, the kittens' tiny breaths syncing to Xinyi's slower rhythm. In the hush, his earlier worries fluttered back like poisonous insects that had merely waited for darkness.

He closed his eyes, guiding his breath down to the dantian. Death Qi rose in answer, tracing meridians in cool circuits. He lingered at each gateway, checking for turbulence. There was none. Yet the elder's tale of Soaring Crane disciples tugged at his concentration. A demon sensed but not located. Disciples bound for the west, the direction of Seventh Stone. He pictured Soaring Crane adepts kneeling in the village square, palms raised in secret patterns, reading echoes only cultivators could perceive.

Echoes that might point to him. Or they could simply ask the villagers. He had no doubt there would be plenty of voices ready and willing to tell anyone who would listen stories about the strange child who had haunted their streets all these years. And the cultivators would be able to read between the lines. A heretic had walked the streets of some backwater village. They would find their hunt for a demon was a failure, only to discover a new quarry to pursue. Frustration prickled at him like needles.

He couldn't sprint back to erase traces of his presence or beg the villagers to keep their lips sealed. He couldn't outrun rumours. There was nothing to be done, and thus, no point worrying about it. All he could do was prepare. His only weapon against ignorance was knowledge, and the first stop on that road lay east in Ironhold. Mingxuan counted heartbeats while he breathed. Nine to draw in, seven to hold, nine to let go, seven to empty.

It left him feeling a little light-headed, certain he wasn't getting enough air, but he had to admit it did centre his mind in his own body, which was meant to be the point of such things. Meditation. Perhaps one day he would develop a talent or a taste for it, but he had yet to find either. The pattern belonged to Liu Wen, the defeated cultivator whose final breaths had lodged inside Mingxuan's own meridians for a time, blessing him with knowledge that would have taken years to obtain otherwise.

A gentle exhale carried the worry partway out. Midnight's silence pooled around him. He counted heartbeats to a hundred, then a hundred more, until Death Qi circulated in its steady tide, neither rising nor ebbing. He opened his senses, testing for depletion. A sliver, perhaps, lost to movement. Negligible, barely noticeable if he wasn't looking closely for it. But a loss all the same, and for nothing more than circulating his Qi through his meridians.

It seemed dreadfully unfair, and he didn't know what to do about it, even with the cryptic hint the Ox spirit had given him. Mingxuan let out a sigh and allowed his shoulders to slump. If only Liu Wen had been more of a scholar in life. Most cultivators, it seemed, dug deep into their own element and those toward which it held advantage or weakness. Few bothered to map the broader spectrum, and Liu Wen had been an exemplar of this narrow focus.

His knowledge beyond Wind and the elements that suppressed it was paper thin, and that poverty now gnawed at Mingxuan's impatience. He couldn't blame them, exactly. Time was precious, even to those who measured their lives in centuries or millennia. Why waste it on an element that would never be relevant to their path? Even Mingxuan wasn't interested in other elements for their own sake, but for what studying them could tell him about Death Qi. And that was only by necessity.

If there was a repository of knowledge out there, some hidden Death Sect, he would shut himself away in its library and never spare another thought for the other flavours of Qi. Still, basic scrolls had sketched a foundational theory in Liu Wen's mind and, by extension, Mingxuan's. Every expression of Qi was supposedly an alloy of the Five Elements—Water, Wood, Earth, Metal, Fire—in varying measures, tempered by weights of Yin and Yang, each ratio as unique as fingerprints. What, then, was Death?

No blend of lesser pieces, he felt sure, but the blank canvas on which the Elements wrote their endings. Everything and nothing. What could Death possibly be weak to? Life? He hadn't heard any mention of Life Qi thus far, but it stood to reason it existed, if Qi could broadly encapsulate every conceivable concept. And as for what Death suppressed... Well, everything died eventually. Everything ended. No exceptions that he knew of. But what did that mean in practice? How did he translate it to technique?

To cultivation? How did he become Death, rather than simply wielding it? Questions with no answers, for now, leaving him bereft and frustrated and feeling, once again, that it was all rather unfair. He rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes until colours sparked across the dark, then let his hands fall. Perhaps it is unfair, Mingxuan told himself, but you're searching for distraction. He cracked an eye open to check on Xinyi and found her chest rising and falling in an even rhythm, deep in sleep.

Yin and Yang were curled up next to her. The emerald moon gazed down through the latticed window. He drew in a deep breath. There wasn't much he could do about the pair of Soaring Crane disciples. If they found their way to Seventh Stone and heard stories, then he supposed it was simply fate at work. The matter was out of his hands. It was the other part of the subject he found himself shying away from, and he spent a moment examining why he was avoiding it. It didn't take long to find the answer.

The ordeal with the demon in Seventh Stone itself hadn't been pleasant, but it hadn't been truly awful either. No one had died. It was not a traumatising event he'd actively avoid, at least. But his mind sank into darker places when he thought about demons. That red sky. The smell of blood. The screams, the terror, the death. No, Mingxuan did not like to think about demons. Problematic, then, that he suspected he would have to.