The forest was quiet that morning — too quiet. Mist coiled around the roots like ghosts unwilling to leave. Lin Ziao stood among the damp trees, his clothes torn, his face smeared with dirt and dried blood. His breath came out in shallow puffs, fogging the cold air.
He looked back once, through the thinning mist. The faint outline of Red Billow Village lay hidden somewhere beyond the trees. It felt like a dream now — the shouting, the fear, Peng Cheng's furious eyes.
"I didn't want to hurt anyone…" he whispered, his voice trembling slightly.
But there was no going back.
The forest no longer offered comfort. Every snapping branch reminded him of those who would soon come — soldiers, trackers, maybe even Peng Cheng himself. If he stayed, he'd only bring ruin upon himself and whatever still lingered of Elder Shan's memory.
He adjusted the strap on his spear, took one last look at the shadowy woods, and began walking toward the open plains.
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By the time he emerged from the forest, the sun had climbed high. The sudden brightness stung his eyes. Before him stretched a vast sea of grass, golden and rippling under the wind. The air smelled fresher here — dry, wild, and clean.
For the first time in days, Lin Ziao felt he could breathe freely.
He walked for hours, the wind brushing against his hair, until he found a rise overlooking a river winding through the grasslands. From there, he could see miles in every direction — no villages, no soldiers, no one. Just freedom.
"This is it," he murmured. "My new beginning."
He dropped his spear beside a flat stone and began working. His body ached, but the movement felt good — grounding. He gathered branches, cut young trees, and dug into the firm soil. At first, his goal was simple: build a roof over his head. But as he worked, another thought crept in — safety.
He built the walls first, weaving long grass and clay between wooden frames. They were rough but sturdy. The roof came next, covered with dry reeds tied tight with vines. By sunset, a small hut stood on the hill, uneven yet strong against the wind. Smoke curled from the stone pit at its center, and the river shimmered below like a silver thread.
But Lin Ziao wasn't done.
He stood beside the hut, staring at the ground. "A home isn't safe without a way to hide."
He found a patch of thick grass behind the hut and began to dig. Using his spear tip and a crude shovel, he cut into the earth. The soil was stubborn and heavy, but he didn't stop. Sweat poured down his neck, his palms bled, yet determination pushed him deeper.
He hollowed out a chamber, reinforcing the sides with wooden planks. After several hours, he had carved a space large enough to crouch inside. He then built a narrow passage leading to a hidden hatch beneath the hut's floor, covered by a woven mat.
Two days passed before it was complete. Inside the cool darkness, he laid a few dried herbs, some meat, a water skin, and spare tools. From the outside, the bunker was invisible — a secret refuge only he knew.
If soldiers came — if anyone came — he could vanish in seconds.
When he finished, Lin Ziao sat on the grass, dirt streaking his arms and face. His breathing steadied as the sun sank into the horizon. The world glowed in hues of amber and violet, and for the first time in a long while, he felt peace.
"It's not perfect," he said softly, "but it will do."
He sealed the hatch, lit a small fire, and sat beside it. The night deepened. Stars spilled endlessly across the sky, and the wind carried a gentle hum through the tall grass.
He thought of Peng Cheng — of Li Qingshan, of the moment everything fell apart. "Would they believe me if I said I never meant to harm anyone?" he whispered
He stared into the flames, eyes reflecting the dancing light. "I'll learn to control it," he vowed. "I must."
The fire burned low, casting soft shadows across his face. Beneath his hut, the bunker lay silent — his secret beneath the world. Above it, the small house stood firm against the wind.