After dinner, Merin enters his tent and sits down in silence.
As the night deepens, his thoughts return to the Black Fang Palace.
A force from beyond the Western Golden Desert.
Blood sacrifices.
A god summoned from outside the world.
Chased into the kingdom, cornered village by village, now trapped within the three mountains behind the ruined settlement.
At dawn, the army will seal the exits.
He and the others will enter to kill.
From what Commander Di revealed, Merin understands the truth.
That so-called god is a Saint Realm cultivator.
From the scale of sacrifice, the saint is forcing its way across worlds.
What puzzles Merin is simple.
What could a small world like this possibly hold that would tempt a saint to invest so heavily?
Cross-border forces cost resources beyond measure.
Yet the danger is real.
If a foreign saint enters this world, Merin's life will be threatened.
And if a treasure exists, he will not leave it to another.
With that thought, he sits cross-legged.
He closes his eyes.
His breathing slows, deep and even.
A subtle vibration begins in his muscles.
It starts faintly, like a distant hum, then spreads outward.
Fibres tighten and release in perfect rhythm.
The vibration sinks deeper, passing from flesh into bone.
His skeleton resonates, producing a low, internal echo.
The vibration reaches his organs.
Heart.
Lungs.
Liver.
Spleen.
Kidneys.
Each responds.
The unified power of the five organs awakens.
They rotate together, refining his Blood Qi without loss.
Bronze light seeps into the Qi.
Not a flash.
A layering.
One thin layer forms, compresses, and stabilises.
Then another.
The bronze deepens, thickens, becoming dense and enduring.
When the layer fully locks into place, Merin's breath steadies.
The refinement is complete.
He steps cleanly into the major success stage of Five Inner Organ Refining.
The moment the stage stabilises, feedback erupts.
Blood Qi surges back through his body like a returning tide.
His cells respond first.
They tighten, loosen, then realign, membranes becoming denser, structures refining toward an ideal balance.
Muscle fibres reorganise at a microscopic level, strength no longer coming from bulk but from efficiency.
Bones hum softly, impurities forced out as marrow deepens in vitality.
His organs pulse in harmony, each reinforcing the other, correcting minute flaws accumulated through years of strain.
The feedback washes through him again and again until it slows.
A faint bronze light rises from beneath his skin.
It lingers for a breath.
Then fades.
His Blood Qi is empty.
A violent hunger tears through Merin, sharp and maddening.
Without hesitation, he reaches into his uniform, pulls out a pill bottle, and pours everything into his mouth.
He swallows.
The pills explode inside him.
Energy floods his meridians violently, raw and untamed.
In less than a minute, his Blood Qi recovers.
Yet the energy does not stop.
It keeps pouring out.
Merin immediately sinks back into cultivation.
His organs rotate again.
The unified cycle tightens.
Blood Qi compresses.
Bronze light forms once more, thicker than before, layering inward rather than spreading outward.
The refining ends.
Feedback follows.
His body trembles lightly as cells adjust again, closer to perfection than before.
Bronze light flares over his skin, deeper, heavier.
It fades.
He does not stop.
He swallows a second bottle.
Energy surges.
Not willing to waste even a fragment, he gulps down a third bottle.
The third refining begins.
This time, the bronze light forms slowly, resisting compression.
Merin grits his teeth and forces stability through balance rather than force.
The layer locks in.
Feedback crashes through him.
His flesh hardens subtly.
His bones feel unbreakable.
The bronze sheen that rises from his skin darkens, almost black, before sinking back into him.
He swallows another bottle.
Blood Qi recovers to nearly eighty per cent.
He stops.
Outside the tent, birds begin to chirp.
Dawn approaches.
He opens his eyes.
One pill bottle remains.
Not enough to continue.
He exhales slowly, steadying himself.
Three refinements complete.
The day begins with danger waiting.
At first light, Merin leads the team into the mountains.
They choose the eastern ridge, the narrowest of the three, where stone walls rise steeply and the forest clings to the slopes like a living skin.
Mist still lingers between the trees, pale threads drifting low to the ground, muffling sound and blurring distance.
The Grey Wolf Army remains behind, sealing exits and watching the valleys.
This hunt belongs to them.
Merin walks at the front, senses stretched outward, Blood Qi circulating in a slow, controlled rhythm.
Behind him, the lieutenants spread their teams in layered formation.
No shouting.
No careless movement.
Each step is measured.
The forest grows denser as they climb.
Roots twist across the ground, slick with moisture.
Fallen leaves hide loose stones and old tracks.
Sunlight filters down in broken shafts, illuminating patches of moss and lichen clinging to rock faces.
At first, there is nothing.
No footprints.
No broken branches.
No discarded items.
Black Fang Palace is careful.
Too careful.
Merin kneels beside a tree and touches the bark.
A faint discolouration.
Almost invisible.
Blood.
Old, washed thin by dew and time.
He rises without comment and moves on.
The others notice and follow more cautiously.
As the slope steepens, the forest thins.
Stone replaces soil.
Shrubs grow low and sharp, leaves edged like knives.
They pass a narrow ravine where water trickles weakly over rocks, its sound swallowed by the wind.
Here, Merin halts.
He raises a hand.
The team freezes.
On the far side of the ravine, a patch of ground is unnaturally bare.
No plants.
No moss.
Even insects avoid it.
Merin does not need to be told.
Residual sacrifice.
Small.
Careless.
A scouting ritual.
They cross the ravine one by one.
Further up, signs multiply.
Scratches on stone.
Charred marks where fire burned too hot for cooking.
Bones crushed and scattered, too small to belong to livestock.
Merin's jaw tightens.
This group has been active for longer than the village massacre suggests.
They are not fleeing blindly.
They are preparing.
The climb takes hours.
Sweat dampens clothing.
Breath grows heavier as the air thins.
Yet no one complains.
By midmorning, they reach a natural terrace carved into the mountain's side.
From here, they can see across the valley, where the other two ridges loom like dark sentinels.
Smoke rises faintly from somewhere deep within the mountains.
Too controlled to be a forest fire.
Merin marks the direction and continues.
They descend briefly into a narrow pass, where stone walls squeeze close enough to brush shoulders.
The smell changes here.
Iron.
Rot.
Incense, faint but unmistakable.
Several guards are tense.
Hands drift closer to weapons.
Merin slows.
He finds a sigil carved into the rock face, partially hidden behind a curtain of vines.
Crude.
Violent.
The symbol of the Black Fang Palace.
He erases it with a sweep of his hand, grinding the stone to a smooth finish.
They move on.
By late morning, fatigue begins to show.
Not weakness, but caution deepening into strain.
They have not been attacked.
That worries Merin more than open resistance.
Black Fang thrives on ambush and ritual, not honour.
At noon, Merin signals a halt.
They stop in a shaded hollow beneath an overhanging cliff.
No fires are lit.
Lanterns remain sealed.
The team eats quietly, chewing dried fruits and compressed rations.
Water is passed sparingly.
No one speaks above a whisper.
Merin stands apart, scanning the terrain.
Above them, birds circle and cry, then abruptly scatter.
He narrows his eyes.
Something deeper in the mountain stirs.
He feels it through the stone beneath his boots.
A low vibration, like a heartbeat buried too deep to hear.
This ridge is only the beginning.
Black Fang Palace is closed.
And when they strike, it will not be subtle.
While Merin eats dry fruits beneath a cliff's shadow, Yu Diexin sits across from Chu Feng in the dining hall of the Pearl House.
Between them, the table is full.
Warm dishes steam gently, porcelain catching the light, sauces arranged with care that now feels almost ceremonial.
Neither reaches for the food.
They look at each other.
Chu Feng studies her first, measuring the changes three years have carved into her face, the calm that was once sharper, the restraint that replaced fire.
Diexin meets his gaze without flinching, yet her fingers rest too neatly beside her bowl, betraying tension.
Both wait.
Who should speak first?
And what should be said.
So many words press against Diexin's chest.
Gratitude.
Anger.
Affection.
Distance.
She thinks of the last time they shared a table like this, when plans were smaller and the world less cruel.
Chu Feng breaks eye contact for a heartbeat, then looks back.
He wants to ask if she is happy.
He wants to ask if she is being forced.
He wants to tell her to stop, to turn back, to let him take her away.
None of those words leaves his mouth.
Because he sees it.
The resolve.
The line she has already crossed.
Diexin considers speaking.
She wants to thank him.
She wants to apologise.
She wants to explain why she chose openness, why this meeting had to be here, under light and witnesses.
But the explanation sounds like an excuse.
And excuse sounds like weakness.
Seconds stretch.
The hall's noise feels distant, as if wrapped in cloth.
Finally, Diexin reaches for her cup, lifts it, and takes a small sip.
The motion breaks the stalemate.
Chu Feng exhales slowly, the breath he did not realise he was holding.
Whatever is said next will decide what they become to each other.
Friends.
Strangers.
Or something that never had a name.
Outside, the city moves on.
And far away, in the mountains, steel and blood draw closer to collision.