By midday, Yan Li had left the mountain path behind and crossed into the forest leading toward Qinghe Outpost. It was a place for trading items and a defense hub for monster attacks. It was managed by the three clans the Yan, Du and Meng. Tall wooden palisades and watchtowers loomed above as merchants passed under banners bearing the insignias of the three clans. Inside, narrow lanes bustled with travelers, hunters and caravans all under the watchful gaze of armored guards.
Holding a cloth pouch of contribution tokens the hard-earned rewards from teaching clan juniors and assisting with historical transcriptions, Yan Li made his way toward the medical stalls near the northern wall. His goal was simple but urgent: to exchange his tokens for lung-clearing elixirs and warmth-suppressing powders for his mother, whose cough had worsened during the colder nights.
He turned toward a familiar stall tucked along the western edge of the outpost. The faint scent of crushed herbs marked it as belonging to Tan Lu, an irritable but reliable pharmacist.
"I need something for deep-lung congestion," Yan Li said as he approached. "My mother's breath comes heavy now."
"Winter-damp lungs?" Tan Lu snorted. "Hmph. That calls for white snow pear syrup and fireleaf essence. Not cheap this season. You'll need at least twelve tokens for a decent week's supply."
"Twelve? That's half of what I've earned this month. Can you not adjust the price? I'm not asking for pills, just a paste will do."
Tan Lu scratched his beard. "Paste isn't cheap either. The fireleaf has to be smuggled past Meng patrols. Still... you're that scholar from the east wards, aren't you?"
Yan Li gave a tired smile. "Yes. If you give me a fair price now, I'll transcribe those crumbling scrolls in your backroom. Three pieces a week."
"Tch. You scribes know how to haggle worse than spice hawkers."
"And yet you haven't said no."
"Fine. Eight tokens—but only if you copy my brother's medical ledger too. It's full of ink smudges and rat-bite holes."
"Done. Just don't water down the syrup like last time."
"Bah! That was not intentional, it stretches the remedy. But I'll make it proper this time."
As Yan Li waited for Tan Lu to gather the ingredients, two elderly men nearby exchanged hushed words over steaming cups of barley tea.
"Did you hear?" one muttered. "The Du clan's envoy hasn't returned from the border patrol. Some say they've crossed into Meng territory again."
"Hah! The Du never know when to keep themselves, after their clan Patriarch breakthrough they are getting even worse."
"And the Meng?" the first asked. "I heard their new quartermaster's been tightening trade routes. Even taxed Tan Lu's last fireleaf shipment."
"Wouldn't be surprised," the old man replied, lowering his voice. "The Meng are greedy bastards. If it continues, we are starving to death."
Yan Li listened quietly, filing away the rumors. The three clans had long cooperated on paper, but in truth, tension clung to Qinghe like morning mist. The Yan clan, to which he belonged, preferred the edge of a blade, renowned for their disciplined and swordsmanship passed down through generations. Though they avoided open conflict, their silence was never weakness.
Tan Lu returned, placing a wrapped bundle in Yan Li's hands.
"Here. And be careful walking back."
After collecting his medicine, Yan Li headed straight to Liam Village. Even though he was late, the village students waited patiently. Seated on woven mats with their bamboo scrolls open. He apologized with a faint smile and dove into their lesson—reciting passages from the Treatise of Eastern War Tactics, then guiding them through breathing forms meant to sharpen the mind.
As it began to get dark, he packed his scrolls and began the journey back to his clan's compound higher up the mountain. But halfway along the road, a chill crawled up his spine. He paused, turning his head slightly. Someone was watching him. The rustle of trees, the stillness between bird calls—it was too quiet. His sword arm itched.
Moments later, two masked men stepped onto the path, cloaked in dark cloth and leather wraps. Their movements were fluid, clearly not common bandits.
"Throw down the bundle," one of them said flatly, eyes fixed on the pouch in Yan Li's hands. "And walk away."
Yan Li didn't move. His gaze sharpened, lips pressing into a line. "You've mistaken me for a courier."
The other man tilted his head. "No mistake. We were told a Yan swordsman would pass through here today."
Yan Li's fingers closed around the hilt at his waist.
"Then you were told the truth."
Yan Li's blade hissed free of its scabbard, catching the moonlight as it arced through the air.
"Sea-Engulfing Sword Art, First Style—Tide's Rise," he whispered.
A sweeping crescent of sword force surged forth, crashing like a wave toward the two masked figures. They split apart, one lunged low, dagger flashing in his off-hand. Yan Li twisted, but not fast enough. The blade bit deep into his right side, just below the ribs—a brutal stab near the kidney. A hot rush of blood soaked his robes instantly.
"Ghk—!" Yan Li staggered, teeth clenched against the pain.
The second attacker didn't hesitate. His curved blade of pale-blue light—Moonlight Edge—came slashing down in a vicious arc.
"Second Style—Moon Reflection!"
Yan Li spun mid-air, blade flashing in a wide spiral. His sword deflected the attack, shimmering like ripples across a pond. The clash of energy scattered leaves and snapped branches.
Both attackers closed in again, one from the front, one from behind.
"Third Style—Crashing Depths!"
Yan Li slammed his sword into the ground, sending a tremor through the earth. Rocks buckled and surged upward, forcing one enemy back. But the other twisted above the quake, landing with feline agility and slashing at Yan Li's side. Blood welled up—a shallow cut.
"Fourth Style—Foam's Dance."
Yan Li ducked low, his blade weaving through the air in erratic, flowing arcs. Each motion left shimmering trails that disrupted the rhythm of his enemies. Steel met steel in a series of rapid flashes. The masked figures grunted, forced onto the defensive.
"Fifth Style—Silent Undertow!"
He stepped forward, vanishing for a heartbeat. When he reappeared, he was behind them. A single upward slash knocked both of their weapons skyward.
One of the attackers narrowed his gaze. "You've broken through!"
The other tilted his head in grudging respect. "Not bad—Rank 2 at such a young age. The Yan clan's heritage runs deep after all."
Panting, Yan Li reached into his robes and ignited a crimson firework flare.
It burst into the night sky with a sharp crack, Yan Clan's signal for armed pursuit. Reinforcements would come swiftly
The two attackers stiffened. One gave a soft curse, while the other stepped back fluidly.
"No use pushing further," the first muttered.
"The tide has shifted. Another time, Yan swordsman."
The two attackers exchanged a glance and vanished into the trees, blades flickering one last time like moonlight on water.
Yan Li stood in the silence left behind by the fleeing attackers, the scent of blood and steel still hanging thick in the air. His sword lowered in his hand, trembling ever so slightly.
He staggered back a step, knees weakening.
I could have died.
His breath hitched, the weight of the moment crashing down now that the danger had passed. The tension he'd held l suddenly released. His heart thundered in his chest, louder than the flare . Blood, his blood—seeped into the side of his robe, warm against the cold mountain air.
They came for me. They knew my name.
He stumbled to the side of the path and sank to his knees, sucking in air like a drowning man. His hands gripped the earth. He was alive. The knowledge didn't bring comfort—it brought doubt. His techniques had saved him, yes, but barely. If he had hesitated a second longer, if they had aimed for his heart…
Sweat poured from his brow despite the cold. A low, shaky laugh escaped his throat before it turned into a cough. So this is what real combat feels like.
A rustle of movement snapped his head up. For a moment, panic surged. They're back! He reached for his sword, wild-eyed.
"Yan Li!" a voice rang out, firm but not hostile.
Flames from torches danced through the trees. A squad of Yan guards approached, led by a tall woman whose cloak bore silver-threaded hems. Her stride was brisk, focused—but as her eyes fell on him, her pace faltered.
"You're shaking," she said, voice softer now. "Are you hurt, What happened?"
"I—" he swallowed hard, forcing himself to his feet. His legs wobbled beneath him. "They're gone" he whispered.
Her brows furrowed. "Here, sit. You're pale."
"I can't—" he took a shaky step, then another, clutching the pouch of medicine as if it were the only thing anchoring him. "I have to deliver this to my mother, she needs it."
The woman stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"You've done enough. You sent the signal. You're bleeding, and your hands won't stop shaking. This was your first fight, wasn't it?"
Yan Li looked away, ashamed of the tears stinging his eyes. "I've trained every day since I could walk. Read every scroll. But when I saw them... it was nothing like the practice courts."
"No," she said, her voice gentler. "It never is."
He let out a slow, bitter breath. "I almost died. If they'd struck an inch deeper, if I hadn't remembered the Fifth Form—"
"But you did," she said. "You remembered. You survived. That's what matters now."
He nodded faintly, throat tight. "They weren't bandits. They were waiting for me. They said a Yan swordsman would pass through."
She narrowed her eyes. "Then someone fed them that route. We'll report this to the Elders. Go to the compound. You've earned rest."
"I don't feel like I've earned anything," he muttered, voice hoarse.
"You've earned your life," she said simply. "That's no small feat."
Yan Li looked toward the flickering torches in the distance, then down at his own bloodstained hands. He sheathed his sword, finally steadying his breath.
He turned back toward the narrow path leading uphill, his thoughts heavier than his footsteps. Above him, the stars blinked cold and distant, uncaring of the blood spilled beneath them.
Somewhere deeper in the forest, someone was watching. And whatever game had begun, it was far from over.
A quiet wind swept down through the trees, tugging at his robes, carrying with it the distant howl of a nightbeast. It was a reminder that the world beyond the walls of Qinghe was ever restless, ever watching.
By the time he reached the outer gate, the warriers had already been alerted. One stepped forward to assist him, while another ran ahead to summon the inner ward.
Inside the compound, warm lantern light glowed behind paper windows. The scent of pine smoke, rice gruel, and medicinal salves filled the air. Familiar voices murmured from behind sliding doors. But Yan Li's arrival was met with silence as he passed many startled glances, tight nods, a few lowered heads. His condition spoke volumes.
In his family's quarters, his mother sat propped on a straw bed, her form wrapped in woolen blankets, face pale and drawn but eyes still sharp.
She coughed when she saw him. "You're late."
Yan Li dropped to his knees beside her, pressing the bundle of medicine into her hands. "I'm sorry. There were… delays."
Her gaze lingered on the tear in his robe, the dried blood along his side. She didn't ask. She simply reached out, brushing his hair from his brow. "You're cold."
"I'm fine."
She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded and accepted the medicine.
He sat beside her until her breath softened, the warmth-suppressing powder working its way through her lungs. Only then did he retreat to his own room, shedding his sword belt and robe. He stared for a while at the candlelit walls at the old scrolls, the calligraphy he'd practiced for years, the sparring markings etched into the wooden floor.
None of it had prepared him for tonight.
His sword lay across his lap. He cleaned it slowly, as he had a thousand times before. But now he saw the stains differently. This blade had drawn blood. And it had been his hand that wielded it.
He remembered the final look exchanged between the masked men.
They'll return. Whoever sent them will not give up so easily.
A knock came at his door.
"Enter," he said in a voice low.
It was Elder Yan chong his martialuncle and one of the outer hall's senior instructors. His presence filled the room like iron.
"I heard," Yan chong said. "You were ambushed. You held your ground."
Yan Li nodded.
The elder stepped inside and shut the door. "You used five forms of the Sea-Engulfing Sword Art in a single engagement. That is not bad. Not many are this capable in real fights."
"It didn't feel like I thought it would," Yan li said, his voice low. "It felt like life and death."
Yan chong folded his arms, his amber eyes glinting in the dim light. "Then you finally understand. True awakening comes when you stand at the edge, when death stares back and you realize how fragile your heartbeat really is."
He let that settle before continuing. "This wasn't random. The clan will investigate who was behind this."
After the elder left, Yan Li sat down again, pulling a cloth wrap from his satchel. He peeled back the blood-soaked layers of his robe, wincing at the gash on his side. It wasn't deep, but it burned sharply. After that he applied leftover medicine from his mother fireleaf extract mixed with bitterroot. This will clean the wound and help heal haster. He poured the liquid carefully, and the pain came fast hot and stingy like liquid fire. Yan Li gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching as the fluid sterilized the cut. The sting faded into a dull throb. He bound it tightly with a strip of clean cloth.
Far above, behind stone walls and torch-lit courtyards of the Yan clan mansion, Patriarch Yan sat at the head of the inner hall, his brows knitted in storm-like focus. Elders lined both sides, their robes heavy with clan insignias, their expressions grave.
"The beast tide is confirmed," one elder reported. "Scouts found ruptured earth along the Marshbound Vale. The scouts also conformed movment of the Crimson bone tiger and Howling wind apes. "
"It will draw monsters in waves," another added. "And we're not prepared."
"Worse," said a third, "the Meng have pulled their forces inward. And the Du? They've not responded."
Patriarch Yan's voice cut through the room. "Then we prepare alone. Begin mass-forging. Use the old methods."
There was a pause.
"You mean… the Bloodsteel?" a younger elder asked, hesitant.
"Yes," the Patriarch said grimly. "We've no time for ethics."
Behind him, two silent figures in black masks stood motionless.
The air in the hall turned colder.