Han Li ran.
The basket of wood on his back bounced with each frantic step, the weight slowing him to an awkward, lumbering jog. Branches snagged at his patched clothes. Every shadow between the ancient trees seemed to hold watching eyes. The memory of those winter-gray eyes, the warning—They are coming—echoed in his skull like a drumbeat.
He fumbled inside his shirt, his fingers closing around the leather pouch. It was impossibly light, as if empty. He stuffed it deeper into the inner fold of his robe, securing it against the frantic hammering of his heart. Then he adjusted the straps of his basket and pushed forward, sacrificing stealth for speed. The familiar path home had never felt so long.
---
Behind him, at the edge of the forgotten pit, the forest held its breath.
Five figures materialized from the deepening shadows. They wore fitted robes of matte black that drank the light, their faces obscured by simple cloth masks leaving only their eyes visible—cold, assessing, and devoid of mercy.
The leader, a man with eyes like chips of flint, knelt beside the white-haired youth. He pressed two fingers to the pale neck, held them there for a long moment. The forest's silence was his answer.
"Dead," he stated, voice flat. He gestured to the body. "Check him. The target was the Seal Pouch."
Another black-robed figure swiftly patted down the body, his movements efficient and impersonal. He checked the belt, the sleeves, the inner folds of the ruined robe. He looked up at the leader and shook his head once. "He doesn't have it, Boss."
The leader's flinty eyes narrowed. He stood, scanning the trampled moss, the marks of struggle, the severed vine. His gaze lingered on the deep gouges in the earth from a large animal's paws, then followed the trail of disturbed foliage leading west.
"He didn't take it with him into the earth," the leader muttered. "Someone else was here. Recently."
He closed his eyes. The air around him grew still, then subtly warped. An invisible pressure—a spiritual sense—rippled out from him in a wave, washing over the clearing, probing the trees, tasting the residual energies of fear, urgency, and bestial musk.
His eyes snapped open, pointing west. "There. Faint life-signatures. One human, panicked. And… a spirit beast. A wolf. Moving fast." A cruel smile touched the corners of his visible eyes. "The wolf did not kill him. It fetched help. A foolish, mortal helper."
He signaled with a sharp chop of his hand. "West. The wolf's trail is fresh. Find the helper. Retrieve the pouch. Leave no threads."
Like ghosts given purpose, the five men in black turned as one. They did not run; they flowed between the trees, silent and swift as hunting shadows, disappearing into the green gloom in the precise direction Han Li and the spirit wolf had fled.
---
Han Li stumbled into the clearing where his home stood. It was a humble structure of worn timber and packed earth, a defiant patch of order carved from the forest's edge. Smoke curled from the clay chimney, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and cooked grain—a smell that spelled safety.
The door flew open before he reached it.
A woman emerged, her steps quick with worry. She was in her mid-thirties, but a life of work had etched gentle lines beside her eyes. Her hands, rough from labor, flew to her mouth as she saw him.
"You brat!" she cried, rushing forward. She didn't scold; she grabbed him, pulling him into a tight hug that crushed the basket of wood between them. Her voice was thick. "I thought you… the forest is deep, and dusk was coming…"
Han Li sagged into the embrace, the terror of the last hour receding slightly in the face of this unconditional warmth. "Sorry, Mother," he mumbled into her shoulder, the guilt genuine. "I… I got delayed. I won't be late again."
She held him at arm's length, her eyes searching his face. She saw the smudges of dirt, the wildness still lingering in his eyes, but she chose to trust his words. She sighed, the worry melting into weary affection. "Alright. Keep the wood over there with the others," she said, nodding to the modest stack against the house. "Then wash your hands and face. Properly." A faint, tired smile touched her lips. "I cooked meat and flatbreads today."
Han Li's stomach growled in immediate betrayal. "Really?"
"Yes, really. Now go."
Inside, the main room was warm and dim, lit by the hearth's glow. Han Li placed his basket by the door and went to the water basin. He scrubbed his hands and face with the coarse soap, the cool water washing away the grime of the pit, the sweat of fear. As he dried his face on a clean cloth, he caught his reflection in the dark window glass. The cleansed skin, the sharpening lines of his jaw—for a moment, he looked less like a ragged woodsman's son and more like… someone else. Someone the sects might glance at twice. He pushed the thought away.
They ate in comfortable silence. The meat was tough but flavorful, the flatbreads soft and filling. It was a feast.
"Mother," Han Li asked between bites. "Isn't Father back yet from the capital?"
She shook her head, stirring the stew pot. "He sent word. Has important merchant business. Might take two days or so. Don't worry your head about it."
Han Li nodded, finishing his meal. The ordinary conversation was a balm.
"Thank you for the food." He rose, taking his wooden plate to the wash basin.
"Rest well," his mother said softly, her back to him as she cleaned. "Big day soon."
In the small, spartan room he called his own, Han Li closed the wooden shutters and barred the door. The quiet felt different now—not just empty, but watchful. He sat on his straw-stuffed bed, the rough blanket familiar under his hands.
His heart began to pound again. He reached into his robe and pulled out the leather pouch.
It was so light. Suspiciously light. He turned it over in his hands. It was made of a material he couldn't name, supple yet impossibly tough, with a subtle grain. There was no clasp, just a simple drawstring. He pulled it open and peered inside.
Darkness. He upended it, shaking it over his palm.
Nothing fell out.
He pushed his fingers inside, stretching the opening. His fingertips brushed only smooth, cool interior. It was completely, utterly empty.
A wave of bitter disappointment washed over him, so intense it left a metallic taste in his mouth. He slumped.
"Did that senior give me an empty pouch?" he whispered to the silent room. The absurdity of it stung. "Of course. It's true. I really don't have any luck."
In a moment of frustration, he tossed the pouch onto the floor near the foot of his bed. It landed without a sound.
He lay back, staring at the darkened ceiling. The excitement of the day—the wolf, the pit, the dying cultivator, the escape—crashed down into bleak anticlimax. He had risked his life for… a bag. An empty bag. He was a punchline in a joke played by the uncaring heavens.
But after a few minutes, a calmer thought surfaced. The man's eyes had been so clear, so intent. The pouch had been on his belt, a specific target for those black-robed killers. Nothing about this felt accidental.
With a grunt, Han Li leaned over, picked up the pouch, and brushed it off. "Maybe I'll just keep it," he murmured. "Let's not blame the pouch. Or the senior. Maybe this is just my fate." What mattered now was the gathering. That was real. That was his chance.
He tucked the empty pouch back inside his inner robe, letting it rest against his chest. A strange calm settled over him. The decision was made. The mystery could wait.
With a peace born of exhaustion and resolved focus, Han Li fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
---
Only two days remained until the physician's arrival—the representative from the sects who would conduct the spirit root test. Old Zhang's words haunted Han Li's waking moments: "A lot of surprises for the one being selected… wealth, respect, a path beyond the sky…" It was a siren's call to a drowning boy.
The next morning, Han Li woke to the smell of baking bread. He ate the simple breakfast his mother prepared, then, unusually, stayed close to home. He didn't venture into the forest. He helped with chores, mended a tool, his mind a whirlpool of anxiety and hope. The world outside their clearing felt charged, dangerous.
Just past midday, a figure appeared on the path.
A man in his mid-thirties, shoulders broad from labor, a large basket strapped to his back. In one hand, he carried a bundle wrapped in plain cloth. Han Li's heart leapt.
"Father!"
He ran out, meeting the man at the edge of the clearing. His father, Han Wei, dropped the basket and caught his son in a strong, brief hug, his travel-dusty face breaking into a wide smile.
"You've grown taller in a week, lad," he rumbled.
They carried the basket inside. Han Li's eyes went wide at its contents: fine white flour, a small sack of precious white rice, a block of salt. Such luxuries.
"Father, what is all this?"
Han Wei's smile turned proud. He picked up the cloth bundle and unwrapped it. Folded inside was a robe. Not of patched homespun, but of woven cotton, dyed a rich, deep green-azure—the color of a forest pool under a clear sky. It was simple, but utterly elegant.
"For you," Han Wei said, holding it out. "New clothes."
Han Li took it, the fabric smooth and substantial under his calloused fingers. "For me?" A genuine, unguarded smile of delight spread across his face. "Thank you, Father!"
"Keep it in the cupboard. On Saturday, for the grand occasion, you will wear this. Make a good impression." His father's eyes held a complex mix of hope, pride, and a father's quiet fear that the world might disappoint his child.
"Yes, Father." Han Li carefully carried the robe to the family's shared cupboard, placing it inside with reverence. It lay there like a promise.
---
The two days passed with the strange, elastic quality of awaited fate. For the world, they were ordinary. For Han Li, they were a vast, silent wall he had to scale. The empty pouch in his robe was a forgotten weight, a mystery overshadowed by the imminent trial.
Finally, the morning dawned—clear, bright, and momentous.
Han Li washed meticulously. He combed his black hair back as best he could. Then, with hands that trembled slightly, he put on the new green-azure robe. It fit him well, the cut flattering his lean frame. The color made his fair skin seem brighter, his dark eyes deeper. He stood straighter in it.
He emerged from his room. His mother, who was stirring the morning pot, turned and her ladle clattered against the cauldron.
"Oh, my heavens," she breathed, her eyes glistening. She approached, adjusting a non-existent wrinkle on his shoulder. "My little fairy… you look like an immortal ."
His father, dressed in his own best clothes, nodded gruffly, approval shining in his eyes. "He looks ready."
"Let's go to the village square," Han Wei said. "There will be a crowd today."
The three of them left their quiet clearing and joined the stream of villagers on the main path. Families with children of testing age, elders, curious onlookers—all flowed toward the heart of the village. The air buzzed with nervous excitement, whispered hopes, and the rustle of best clothing.
Han Li walked between his parents, the green-azure robe a banner of his ambition. Beneath it, against his skin, the empty leather pouch lay inert.
Ahead lay the square, the crowd, and the slender reed of a chance that would determine whether his life remained within the confines of the green forest, or stretched toward the impossible, The path forked here. And he was ready to step onto it.