Past midnight, Arrand's caravan rolled through Nameth's blackened plains, the City of Burning Souls fading into a smoldering memory. The carriage swayed, its blackwood frame carved with serpents that seemed to writhe in the moonlight, flanked by armored guards and beasts with hides like molten rock. Distant clashes echoed—swords against bandits, beasts' roars—yet Arrand sat within, his sleeves clinging to his arms, his face a mask of focus.
As the caravan pressed onward, Arrand sat in silence, the Pavilion Secretary's warning echoing in his mind: "Beware what it is you do, lest you meet Bill the Butcher." The words clung to him like a curse, a reminder of his recklessness. He'd secured a bound cultivator with eyes like hollow flames and a crystal orb pulsing with a trapped storm, all prizes that could shift the balance of power in any sect. The cultivator, a wiry man shackled in chains etched with suppression runes, had glared at Arrand with a defiance that promised trouble and showed sincere resentment, a likely testiment to his own background. The orb, meanwhile, was a mystery, its surface swirling with gray-green light that held the power of tempests. These were treasures worth killing for, and Arrand knew it. Regret was a luxury no one in the world could afford. The sect awaited and with it, the weight of his responsibilities.
"Young Master, why are we headed out during the night?" Attendant Ikle asked, driving the carriage at its fastest pace. It was dangerous to travel without a scouting party ahead a day or more. Ikle's voice trembled, his hands tight on the reins, the beasts' hooves thundering against the stone road. "The wilds are crawling with thieves!"
Arrand smirked, leaning back against the cushioned interior. "Let them come, Ikle. I could use the distraction." His tone was sharp, cutting through the attendant's nervous chatter, but Ikle's concern lingered, a faint echo of the guards' weary glances outside the carriage windows.
Arrand had left with his entire force in the dead of night, ignoring Ikle's protests. He remained silent during most of the trip, even as bandits and ambushes tested his soldiers. He'd been mocked by rival cultivators, his pride bruised by the Pavilion Secretary's cryptic rebuke, but he couldn't afford mistakes now. Time was short. Sect duties loomed, and the Secretary's warning gnawed at him like a splinter under his skin. His fortress in the Fuchsia territory demanded his return, the elders' cryptic words a thorn in his gut: "The shadows lengthen when debts go unpaid."
Skirmishes with beasts, and the fight with the rogue cultivator strapped to their carraige had drained his guards over the journey. Their armor was dented, their faces etched with exhaustion, their spears stained with the blood of foes too weak to matter. Arrand's mid-tier cultivation held firm, his Qi a steady pulse within him, but the weight of his embarrassment grew with each mile. He had entered the City of Burning Souls with boldness, only to leave with whispers trailing him—whispers of arrogance, of overreach. The bound cultivator and the orb were victories, yes, but they were also targets painted on his back.
Four days into the return journey, four remained. Arrand woke to the smell of fresh tea as the guards adjusted their gear for a roadside rest. The caravan had stopped to feed the beasts, their massive forms snorting steam into the chilly air. Stepping from the carriage, sunlight stung his eyes—he hadn't left its confines since departing the City of Burning Souls. The Wetlands' sun glared overhead, glinting off the guards' armor and the beasts' shimmering scales as they gnawed on spirit-rich feed piled in makeshift troughs. Arrand squinted, his rings flashing as he adjusted them absently, the tea's aroma a fleeting comfort in his hand.
The group prepared to move on quickly but Ikle pointed to the horizon, his finger trembling. The sky darkened abruptly as a storm unfurling its wrath with jagged streaks of lightning—an unnatural tempest, its power raw and elemental, its presence immediate and overwhelming. At that very moment, its fury churned across distant lands, felt by others in far-off places. The air grew heavy with the scent of burnt air and a low rumble of thunder rolled through the region, sharp and insistent. "Secure the beasts, remove your armor, and form a defensive camp," Arrand ordered, his voice slicing through the rising wind. "We move when it passes."
The guards scrambled, fear etched in their movements as they stripped off breastplates—metal was a lightning rod in such a storm—and tied the beasts to stone anchors.
The storm's intensity swelled as it engulfed them, lightning tearing through the sky with erratic, brutal force. Rain lashed the carriage, drumming against its roof in a relentless tattoo, while Arrand paced within, impatience flaring with each crack of thunder that split the air. The elders' warnings gnawed at him—unseen threats, debts unpaid. He clenched his fist, Qi shimmering around his knuckles in faint wisps of shadow. The sect's politics were a web of intrigue, and he was a thread poised to snap—or to strangle. The caravan carried his spoils—valuable, dangerous items that could draw enemies like moths to flame. The bound cultivator, locked in a warded cage at the caravan's rear, was a weapon waiting to be unleashed. The orb, stored in a silk-lined box beside him, hummed faintly, its storm-light casting eerie shadows on the carriage walls.
Morning returned after the lightning eased, a short mist lingering as the camp broke down. The beasts, fed and lashed to their harnesses, snorted impatiently, their breath fogging in the damp air. The mist veiled the road ahead, the Fuchsia sect's flags fluttering in the breeze atop the caravan's poles—purple banners embroidered with silver thorns.
Arrand sat by the carriage curtain, bored, his fingers tapping against the orb's box before putting it away. Within Fuchsia territory now, the household flags flew high, a signal of safety—or so he thought. An arrow pierced the curtain, embedding in the wall inches from his head. Its tip gleamed with runes, faintly glowing with a paralytic enchantment.
"This was a pretty good shot," Arrand mused, his body loosening, a predator's grin breaking through his boredom. He plucked the arrow free, twirling it between his fingers.
"AMBUSH!" The secondary driver shouted, whipping the beasts into a gallop. Ikle raised a barrier shield from his seat, a dome of glowing blue light flaring around the carriage, deflecting a second arrow that splintered against it. Arrand laughed, the sound wild and unrestrained, and leapt out of the carriage into the mist. "These fools will do nicely. Guards, stay with the caravan—report our situation to the sect. No assistance." Qi fumed around him, dark and thick, pooling at his feet like ink. "Ellinger's Rot." Toxic fog flowed from his arms, forming a sickly green globe that pulsed once, then shattered into meteorites raining into the trees. The ground blackened where they struck, two archers' corpses mangled amid splinters of bark and bone, their bows crushed beside them.
"More in the distance," a guard shouted from the caravan's edge, pointing to soldiers emerging from the treeline—disciplined, armored, not mere bandits. "Proceed and kill all in your way," Arrand ordered, his voice carrying over the chaos. Weak arrows skidded to his feet, their tips dull and unenchanted. "They're out of range and think this will stop me?" He scoffed, Qi surging through him. "Sweeping Shadows, Shadow of Light, Shadowgate." Purple light flared around him, and he vanished, reappearing high above the treeline, the wind whipping at his clothes. "Generic trash." Ten fireballs spiraled from his hands, crackling with dark flame and crashed down, scattering against a shimmering barriers raised by an unseen mage.
Overjoyed, Arrand laughed, the sound echoing through the mist and revealing his position. "Dark Heaven's Grasp!" Black hands rose from the ground, massive and clawed, their fingers curling around soldiers with unrelenting force. Armor crumpled, bones snapped, and a dozen fell, the earth trembling beneath the weight of his technique. The air stank of blood and burnt Qi.
"An ambush or an invasion?" he mused, landing lightly and moving deeper into the woods. Tents came into view, their fabric marked with banners of three-headed, three-legged crows wreathed in fire—the Chimeric Crow mercenaries, a notorious band known for their ruthlessness. "Why are they here?" A beam of white energy scorched the earth where he'd stood a moment before, sizzling as it carved a trench through the dirt. Slipping under a tree's low branches, he pondered, "Who gains from this? Theon? Gin? No, they'd be here themselves for something this bold."
Among the fallen, Arrand found a survivor pinned beneath a toppled tree, his leg crushed, his breathing ragged. Kneeling, Arrand pressed a hand to the man's chest, Qi flaring only to keep him conscious. "Who sent you?" he asked coldly, his eyes narrowing. The man spat blood, his voice a rasp. "The crow… flies for gold." Arrand's lips tightened. Mercenaries—whose coin bought them? Theon? Gin? Or another player lurking in the shadows? The man's head lolled, life fading, and Arrand stood, leaving him to the dirt.
"Shadowgate," he muttered, purple light swallowing him as he vanished to investigate further. The mist thickened as he moved, the sounds of battle fading behind him. The Chimeric Crow's camp was small but well-equipped—crates of supplies, a caged beast snarling in the corner, and a map pinned to a tent wall. He tore it free, scanning it quickly: a route marked from the Wetlands to Fuchsia territory, with his caravan's path circled in red. Someone had tracked him. The bound cultivator? The orb? Or simply his name?
Arrand stood amidst the carnage, the acrid smell of burnt flesh and scorched earth filling his nostrils. The mist, still thick and drenching, swirled around the bodies of the fallen mercenaries, their armor twisted and broiled by his Dark Heaven's Grasp. He kicked a shattered helm aside, its crow emblem split in two, and sneered. "Amateurs," he muttered, though a flicker of unease passed through him. The Chimeric Crow were no mere bandits; someone had paid them well to target him. He paused, his gaze sweeping the battlefield, taking in the devastation his techniques had wrought. Charred patches of earth smoked faintly, and the air carried the tang of metal and blood, a grim testament to his power—and a warning of the enemies it had drawn.
He glanced back at the caravan, its flags limp in the still air, the beasts restless but unharmed. The bound cultivator's cage was intact, the runes still glowing faintly with their oppressive light, and the orb's box remained undisturbed, nestled securely among the caravan's cargo. Good. But the map he'd taken from the camp gnawed at him—who had marked his route? Theon was too petty, his schemes small and spiteful; Gin too direct, a man who'd rather face him blade-to-blade than hire shadows. This was someone else's hand, someone with deeper pockets and darker intent, a player he hadn't yet identified in the sect's endless game of power.
As he made his way back to the carriage, the ground squelched under his boots, mud mixed with blood suckling at his soles with each step. The mist parted reluctantly, its tendrils curling away like living things, revealing Ikle's worried face peering from the driver's seat. "Young Master, are you injured?" Ikle's voice was tight, his hands trembling as he lowered the barrier shield, the blue glow fading into the damp air.
Arrand waved him off, his tone curt. "I'm fine. I ordered you to leave, we're not safe yet." He climbed into the carriage, the orb's hum a steady pulse beside him, a comforting rhythm amid the chaos. "Double the watch tonight. And tell the guards to keep their armor on—lightning be damned. We can't afford another surprise." His voice carried the weight of command, sharpened by the unease that lingered in his chest.
Ikle nodded, his face pale, sweat beading on his brow despite the cool mist. "Yes, Young Master. But… who were they? Why attack us now?" His questions hung in the air, fragile and desperate, a plea for reassurance Arrand wouldn't give.
Arrand's lips thinned into a hard line. "Someone who knows what I carry. Or someone who wants to settle a score." He didn't mention the map; no need to spread panic among the already rattled crew. But as the carriage lurched forward, the wheels grinding against the stone road with a low, mournful groan, he couldn't shake the feeling that Bill the Butcher's shadow was growing longer, closer. The sect awaited, its spires a beacon of power and peril, and he would need to be ready—for the enemies outside and the vipers within.