Fragment recovered from the Vault of Converging Paths
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Before one may speak of emperors or tyrants, one must first understand the two paths by which mortals reach beyond themselves: cultivation of the self, and binding of the other.
Of cultivation, the first threshold is known as Tempered Flesh. At this stage, the body is refined beyond human limits — strength increases, wounds heal faster, endurance surpasses common soldiers. Yet this is refinement, not transformation. Power still depends on food, rest, morale, and numbers.
The second threshold is Anchored Breath, where breath, blood, and intent align. Movements grow precise, strength surges briefly beyond exhaustion, and reaction precedes conscious thought. But this harmony is fragile. Fear disrupts it. Hesitation fractures it. Attachment bends it.
Many commanders fall here, not for lack of strength, but for loss of inner alignment.
Of warlocks, the first threshold is called Marked. Through ritual, obsession, or circumstance, the practitioner becomes bound to an external will. Power arrives in moments — visions, compulsions, sudden clarity or rage. Most who perish at this stage believe their actions were freely chosen.
The second threshold is Conduit, where the individual no longer merely receives influence, but serves as a channel through which borrowed power may repeatedly flow. What is taken must be repaid — in obedience, in consequence, or in flesh. Many cult-leaders emerge here, mistaking granted authority for divine purpose.
— Recorded by Ji Qiren, the Archivist of the Ninth Repository - Temple of the Quiet Ledger
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The battlefield did not fall silent all at once.
It quieted in stages—first the screams, then the clash of metal, and finally the subtle sounds that only survivors noticed: labored breathing, boots shifting over stone, the faint crackle of dying spiritual residue dissolving into the air.
Lu Yan did not allow rest.
"Bodies first. Then supplies. Then wounds."
His voice was steady, but the order of priorities mattered. He had learned that long ago.
Two groups moved to the fallen cultists, checking for hidden talismans, delayed curse triggers, or concealed explosives formed of condensed spiritual matter. Others spread outward to secure the perimeter while Mu Renkai knelt beside the shattered remains of the summoning formation.
What remained of the ritual circle was ugly.
Not refined.
Lines were etched in blood and bone dust, intersecting at irregular angles, as if forced rather than drawn by discipline. Whatever god had been called, it had not been done with reverence.
Mu brushed ash aside with the back of his hand, eyes narrowing.
"This wasn't spellcasting," he said. "It was invocation. A pact channel."
Lu Yan turned. "Certain?"
Mu nodded. "Messy, but deliberate. They weren't borrowing ambient power. They were opening a conduit and offering payment."
A few nearby cultivators stiffened.
Lian Qiu stood apart from the group, arms folded loosely, gaze distant. The faint mark beneath his sleeve pulsed, not painfully, but insistently—like a held breath that refused to release.
"It wasn't my patron," he said quietly. "But when the channel opened… something brushed against my mark. Recognition, maybe. Or curiosity."
"Protection?" someone asked.
Lian shook his head. "That's not how it works. Patrons don't protect groups. They protect investments."
That answer did not ease anyone's nerves.
Lu Yan exhaled slowly. "Then this wasn't random."
"No," Mu agreed. "And the cult leader acted fast. Whoever he was, the vision must've been recent. There were no long preparations here. Just obsession… and haste."
Lian's jaw tightened slightly. "Visions don't always come gently. Some arrive like commands."
That sat poorly with everyone.
Good.
Reality rarely felt kind.
Nearby, Qiao Ren sat against a rock outcrop, torso wrapped in blood-soaked cloth. A blade had cut deep through muscle, stopping short of bone by no more than a finger's width. His breathing was controlled, but sweat slicked his temples.
Strapped securely across his broad back, the infant slept, oblivious to the carnage around him.
Small chest rising and falling.
Alive.
Mu crouched beside Qiao Ren. "Your wound isn't closing."
Qiao Ren grunted. "Didn't expect it to."
"You forced circulation too hard during the fight. Your Anchored Breath almost destabilized."
Qiao Ren said nothing.
But inside, something had changed.
The turbulence that had shaken his foundation during the battle had finally settled. The connection between breath and body, once uneven, now held firm.
Anchored Breath — initial stage, stabilized.
The injury remained.
But the path forward no longer shook beneath him.
"I won't slow the group," Qiao Ren said.
Mu met his eyes. "You already are."
Qiao Ren did not argue.
He simply adjusted the strap across his shoulder, ensuring the infant remained secure.
That choice, too, went uncommented on.
Across the clearing, Lu Yan felt the shift within himself as well.
Not explosive.
Not dramatic.
Just… alignment.
The circulation of spiritual breath through his channels no longer resisted control. The strain he had carried since the ambush days ago finally loosened, allowing breath and flesh to move in rhythm rather than opposition.
Anchored Breath, intermediate stage.
He closed his eyes for half a heartbeat, then opened them again.
No celebration.
Just acknowledgment.
When the dead were stripped of identifying items and the ritual remnants destroyed, Lu Yan gathered the core members.
"We're not staying on the main road," he said. "We take the southern cut through the low hills."
Mu nodded. "Harder terrain. Fewer caravans."
"And fewer eyes," Lu Yan added.
Lian Qiu's expression remained troubled. "If that cult leader saw the child in a vision… others may too."
One of the veterans muttered, "How many cults are out there?"
"Too many," Mu replied.
Another voice, quieter: "And what if someone stronger sees the same thing?"
Silence followed.
Lian finally spoke. "Then they may not act at all. Or they may act in ways we won't understand until it's too late. Patrons don't think like mortals. Neither do those who serve them long enough."
Lu Yan considered that, then said, "All the more reason not to be predictable."
They moved before dusk.
No fires.
No markers.
Just quiet, disciplined travel.
The path through the low hills was narrow and uneven, forcing tighter formation. Scouts rotated more frequently, and no one complained when Lu Yan ordered reduced conversation.
Still, small changes followed them.
A loose stone shifted beneath a novice's foot — but instead of rolling into the ravine, it wedged against another rock and held.
A snapped strap on a supply pack spilled its contents into grass rather than onto sharp stone.
When Qiao Ren's injured leg finally buckled, another cultivator was already there, shoulder braced before he even called out.
No one called these miracles.
No one called them destiny.
But something was tightening.
Quietly.
Persistently.
Lian Qiu felt it most sharply.
The mark on his arm pulsed again, faint but deliberate.
Closer, the presence whispered within him.Threshold thinning.
He swallowed.
Closer to what, he did not know.
Behind him, Qiao Ren adjusted his stride, unconsciously matching the infant's breathing rhythm to his own.
At some point during the march, he realized he had begun choosing routes that avoided sharp jolts, even when it cost him effort.
He had carried wounded men before.
Never like this.
Never with this care.
The thought unsettled him.
Ahead, Lu Yan signaled for a brief halt near a shallow stream. Enough to refill flasks. Not enough to camp.
As they rested, no one spoke.
But the unease remained.
And when they moved again, it was no longer simply because escorting the infant was the right thing to do.
It was because, somewhere along the road, stopping had become unthinkable.
Not duty.
Not reason.
Something far more dangerous.
Attachment.
And the road, already bent by unseen hands, continued to shape itself beneath their feet.
Quietly.
Inevitably.