Morning mist clings to the cliffside as Kaelan sits with the golden sword resting across his claws.
Light glints off its edge, and the second symbol yields to his comprehension, its meaning unfolding like a whisper in his mind.
Sharpness—an endless edge, cutting deeper, cleaner, beyond the limits of forged steel.
The realisation brings a flicker of satisfaction, yet before he turns his focus to the final symbol, his eyes widen.
He had forgotten—he never asked Chen Wei about the markings.
A low rumble escapes his throat, but he shakes his head.
It doesn't matter.
Answers will come in time.
For now, his attention narrows on the last symbol, the one still shrouded in silence.
Kaelan closes his eyes and lets his spirit sink into the sword, probing the unfamiliar lines, seeking the truth hidden within.
While he delves into the last symbol, far away in Qinghe City, the magistrate's office hums with unease.
The well-fed magistrate, Zhen Kai, leans back on his cushioned chair as his subordinate, Lin Ji, delivers the report.
"The crow demon defeated all of them," Lin Ji says, bowing low, "but instead of killing them, he stripped them of everything."
Zhen Kai plucks a grape from the plate at his side, rolling it between his fingers before pushing it past his lips.
His teeth crush the skin, sweet juice flooding his tongue, laced faintly with a hint of sourness.
"What realm was the strongest among them?" he asks, voice slow, measured.
"Zhu Mingjin," Lin Ji replies without hesitation. "A previous generation true disciple. Half core formation realm."
The magistrate's hand freezes with the next grape halfway to his mouth.
He swallows hard, and this time no sweetness lingers, only sourness clawing at the back of his throat.
"In trouble," Zhen Kai murmurs inwardly, the words sourer than the fruit.
His mind races, then halts on a sudden thought.
The crow demon had taken everything from the Spring Cloud Sect disciples.
Zhen Kai's eyes narrow in desperation.
"Quickly, go and inform Lu Tong not to throw the crow feathers after killing the inspector," he orders, voice sharp with urgency.
The moment he hears that the crow demon is of the core formation realm, his earlier scheme collapses.
If the crow demon discovers he tried to use its name, then long before the demon hunters arrive, he himself will be the first to die.
Lin Ji bows low. "Yes, Magistrate."
He turns and strides out, leaving Zhen Kai alone to stew in his own thoughts, mind circling in frantic calculation.
At that same time, a black carriage from Xuanyi City turns onto the road leading toward Qinghe.
The villagers stationed near the fork stiffen, their eyes narrowing with wary vigilance.
They let the carriage pass, then slip silently behind, keeping their distance as they follow.
The carriage rolls steadily along the dirt road, wheels crunching against the stones, until it nears the stretch where the Blood Hunt Bandits lie hidden.
Without warning, the silence shatters.
The bandits rise from the mounds, bows drawn, releasing a rain of arrows that whirs through the air and hurtles toward the carriage.
The arrows whistle down in a dark rain, filling the sky with killing intent.
The carriage driver suddenly slaps his palm above his head, and with a sharp crack of force, an invisible air barrier expands outward.
The storm of arrows aimed at him halts in midair, quivering just short of piercing flesh, the barrier holding them like insects stuck in amber.
But the horses scream as shafts tear through their hides, their powerful bodies collapsing under the barrage, blood spilling into the dirt road.
The carriage itself fares no better, its lacquered black surface splitting and shattering as the arrows punch through wood and iron, turning it into a grotesque porcupine bristling with shafts.
The villagers watching from the shadows narrow their eyes, their gazes fixed not on the ruined carriage but on the man who stands untouched beneath his shimmering air barrier.
The true test is not what breaks apart, but who remains standing.
Whispers ripple through the villagers' hiding places, confusion gnawing at them.
Was the carriage driver the inspector from the Demon Hunting Building, or was the true figure still hidden within the shattered carriage?
Their eyes drift toward Chen Qi, waiting for his judgment, even as the clash on the road grows fiercer.
The bandits, cursing with venom on their tongues, vault down the dirt mounds, weapons flashing in the morning light as they charge at the crippled carriage from both flanks.
But Chen Qi's sharp gaze lifts higher, past the rabble. Four figures stand apart, two on either side of the road, poised atop the mounds like generals overseeing a siege.
Nie Hou, the first, looms tallest, his body like a wall of stone, wrapped in black snake-leather armour over a crimson robe. His tied hair knot sways as he shifts, every step exuding raw force. Though only at the initial stage of Martial Master, his monstrous physique allows him to clash evenly with those who are stronger.
Beside him stands Gong Er, bald and broad-shouldered, a wolf-hide cloak draped across his back. His thick hands rest heavy on a blade, his stance braced like an unyielding wall. He, too, carries the realm of an initial Martial Master, his strength no less fierce.
Across the road, Li Wen, the third, is his opposite—thin, long-limbed, his sky-blue robe flowing as if stirred by a breeze. His hair falls loosely over his shoulders, his folded fan flicking open and shut with slow precision. Though only a first-class martial artist, his scholarly aura marks him as the mind of the bandits.
At his side stands Li Qiang, shorter, burlier, his bear-hide armour stitched thick around his torso. His eyes burn hot, his grip tight on the heavy axe at his hip. Though the smallest of the four, his cultivation has already stepped into half-step Martial Master, his temper sharp as his steel.
Chen Qi lowers his gaze to the roof of the carriage, where the driver still holds steady. A long stick whirls in his hands, warding off the blades that flash toward him. The shattered carriage below bristles with arrows like a corpse left to rot, but the driver's barrier keeps him untouched.
Chen Qi exhales slowly, his voice low and cold to those around him.
"Wait. When they grow desperate, we will rescue. That moment will tell us who is worth saving."
Li Qiang's face twists with rage, his breath coming hot and fast as the bandits flounder helplessly against the carriage roof.
"I'm going!" he bellows, hefting his axe overhead, muscles bulging as he leaps from the mound.
"Wait!" Li Wen cries, fan snapping open as his hand stretches out, but the words fall too late. Li Qiang is already halfway down the slope, momentum carrying him like a falling boulder.
Then the world detonates.
The carriage erupts in a storm of splinters and iron nails, every shard sharp as a blade. Screams rip through the chaos as bandits near the carriage crumple, bodies punctured by flying wood, nails, and short knives hidden within the frame. Those not killed outright writhe on the dirt, clutching torn flesh, blood soaking the dust.
At the same instant, the driver moves. He springs from the shattered roof like a hawk diving, stick whirling with a roar of wind, striking down toward Li Qiang.
Where the carriage once stood, a figure rises from the ruin. A young man, handsome and cold-eyed, with long hair flowing over a black robe. Two short swords gleam in his hands, arcs of silver light flashing as he cuts into the survivors with merciless precision.
Bandits scream as their limbs are severed, blades carving deep and fast, the black-robed youth moving like shadow and lightning combined. In moments, the dirt is littered with crippled bodies, groans filling the air.
Li Qiang, roaring defiance, swings his axe high, but the driver is swifter, his cultivation far deeper. Blows rain down like thunder, each strike hammering flesh and bone until Li Qiang's roars turn to gasps. Bruised and broken, bloodied beyond recognition, the half-step Martial Master crumples, unconscious in the dust.
On the mound, Nie Hou and Gong Er share a look, their faces hardening. Without hesitation, both leap down, weapons raised to join the fray.
But Li Wen does not move. He remains at his place atop the mound, folding fan closing with a soft snap, his gaze narrowing to slits as he studies the carnage below.
Seeing the other two leap into the chaos, the driver abandons Li Qiang's unconscious body, whirling instead toward the tallest threat—the burly Nie Hou. Their clash rattles the air, mace crashing against stick.
Sparks of qi flare with each impact, yet the driver holds firm, his stick weaving fluid arcs, redirecting the brute force of the mace, even sneaking sharp jabs into Nie Hou's ribs and shoulder when an opening shows.
Across from them, the black-robed youth meets Gong Er's wolf-hide cloak head-on. His cultivation is lower, yet his body moves like water over stone.
Every slash of Gong Er's blade meets empty air or is deflected with a perfectly angled parry. Cold sweat gathers on the bandit's bald scalp—this youth, weaker in aura, fights with instincts honed sharper than steel.
The four combatants tear at each other, qi exploding in gusts of dust and shattered earth, yet the battle drags on, no one yielding ground.
And then, high above the noise, Li Wen exhales. His fan flicks open with elegance, a scholar idly writing a stroke. He swings it once.
Two slivers of glinting silver flash forth, so thin they cut the air without sound. Needles, long and hair-fine, shoot down like whispers of death.
Neither the driver nor the youth senses the danger. Both stiffen as the needles pierce into their backs, vanishing beneath their robes with only the faintest sting.
The driver frowns, distracted for an instant, brushing at his shoulder as if bitten by a mosquito.
The black-robed youth pauses too, his brow creasing, but his blades whirl again in the next breath, chasing Gong Er's retreating step.
Neither realises the poison has already entered their veins.