Chapter 70
The burial pits filled before noon.
Earth thudded against wrapped bodies in a steady rhythm that matched no prayer. Survivors worked without speaking, hands blistered, faces streaked with ash and grief. No one cried anymore. Tears had been spent during the night.
Shenping stood beyond the graves, far enough that his presence did not draw eyes.
He counted.
Not bodies.
Survivors.
The number was smaller than it should have been.
It always was.
Sang Sang finished covering the last grave and remained kneeling long after the others stepped away. The baby slept against her chest, breathing soft and even, untouched by the weight crushing the adults around it.
Shenping watched her rise slowly, as if standing required permission from the world itself.
She did not look at him this time.
That was worse.
The wind shifted.
Not naturally.
Shenping turned.
The two future soldiers approached from the treeline, careful, controlled. Their armor was scuffed now, one of them limping slightly despite the reinforced exoskeleton beneath her clothing.
"The anchor is compromised," the man said quietly. "We have hours. Maybe less."
Shenping nodded. "You'll leave."
The woman frowned. "You're staying."
"Yes."
"That wasn't an order," the man said.
"It is now," Shenping replied.
The ground reacted faintly beneath his feet, a subtle confirmation that the decision had weight.
The woman glanced toward Sang Sang. "She's drawing probability spikes. Every time she survives an event like this, the hunter narrows the field."
"I know," Shenping said.
"Then why not move her?" the man pressed. "Relocate. Hide her deeper inland."
Shenping's gaze hardened. "Movement creates trails. Stillness blurs them."
"That's a gamble."
"Everything is."
A low hum rolled across the land.
Not close.
But approaching.
The woman's jaw tightened. "Another deployment?"
"No," Shenping said. "A survey."
The hunter was no longer striking blindly.
It was studying.
The soldiers exchanged looks.
"You're changing," the woman said carefully. "You used to explain everything."
Shenping did not answer.
He was listening.
Something was wrong.
Not imminent danger—worse.
A delay.
Time did not resist here.
It flowed too smoothly.
The village felt… acceptable.
"Leave now," Shenping said. "Do not return unless summoned."
The man hesitated. "If this goes wrong—"
"It already has," Shenping replied.
They activated their cloaks and faded, presence thinning until the forest swallowed them completely.
Shenping remained.
He turned back toward the village.
Sang Sang was gone.
The baby's cry cut through the air an instant later.
Shenping moved.
Not fast.
Immediate.
He reached the far end of the village as Sang Sang stumbled out from between two collapsed houses, face pale, eyes wide with terror.
Behind her walked a man.
Ordinary.
Middle-aged.
Clothed like a trader.
Carrying no weapon.
Shenping felt the distortion instantly.
Not machine.
Not hybrid.
A carrier.
The man smiled kindly as he raised his hands. "Please don't misunderstand. I'm only here to talk."
Shenping placed himself between them without looking back. "Step away."
The man sighed. "Always the same. Violence before comprehension."
"You're late," Shenping said.
"On the contrary," the man replied. "I'm early enough to matter."
He took one step forward.
The world did not resist him.
That was the proof.
"You're anchored," Shenping said.
"Yes," the man said calmly. "A walking constant. Very expensive."
Shenping's eyes narrowed. "So this is how it adapts."
The man nodded. "No weapons. No interference. Just conversation placed where it will echo."
Sang Sang's breath hitched behind Shenping.
"Who is he?" she whispered.
Shenping did not answer.
The man looked past Shenping, meeting Sang Sang's eyes. His voice softened.
"You are important," he said gently. "Not special. Not chosen. Simply… necessary."
Shenping struck.
The man did not dodge.
The blow passed through him as if through smoke.
An image.
A projection.
Sang Sang gasped.
The man's voice came from everywhere at once.
"We won't kill you today," it said. "We won't touch you at all."
The pressure settled.
A promise.
"That would be inefficient," the voice continued. "Instead, we will let you live."
Shenping felt it then—the true danger.
Observation without interference.
Survival under scrutiny.
The voice faded.
The air normalized.
Shenping turned.
Sang Sang stared at him, shaking.
"They're going to keep coming," she said. "Because of me."
"Yes," Shenping said.
"Then I'll leave," she said immediately. "I'll go far away. I won't—"
"You won't survive alone," Shenping said.
She swallowed hard. "Then what do I do?"
Shenping looked at the ruins.
At the graves.
At the future pressing closer with every breath.
"You live," he said. "Quietly. Normally. You let the world believe you're insignificant."
"And you?" she asked.
Shenping turned away.
"I make sure they regret watching."
The sky darkened slightly—not with clouds, but with attention.
Somewhere beyond time, the hunter adjusted strategy again.
Not to kill Shenping.
To exhaust him.
To surround his path with survival until loss became inevitable.
Shenping felt the weight settle.
And accepted it.
This was no longer a battle of strength.
It was a war of endurance.
And the clock had truly begun.