Branches cracked underfoot as Shi Yao moved through the canopy, his pace relentless. He vaulted from one tree to the next, boots grinding against bark slick with dew and lichen. Leaves scattered in his wake, caught in the churn of his momentum.
The boy slung across his back was unconscious, his body limp and shifting with every landing. Shi Yao adjusted the weight without breaking stride. His robes clung to his back, damp with sweat and something else he didn't want to acknowledge.
His shoulders burned. Each breath cut short, dragged in through clenched teeth. He hadn't stopped moving since the battle ended.
"I can't let this guy die... not on my first mission."
The forest blurred around him in streaks of green and shadow. The sky above was hidden by thick layers of branches. He had no idea how far the sect was, only that it was still too far.
Far behind, the clearing had grown quiet. The battlefield was still, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
Dust began to stir at the center. Dry leaves twitched on the ground, caught in an unseen current. Thin lines of energy began carving into the dirt, steady and deliberate. A circle formed. Not drawn, but burned into place with precision.
The air shifted. A low hum rolled through the trees, faint but growing.
Suddenly, the formation pulsed. A sharp column of force burst upward, scattering debris in a wide ring. The light faded just as quickly.
Two figures stepped from the center of the circle.
They wore long, black robes, the hoods drawn low. Smoke curled faintly around their faces, hiding any detail. Their presence felt like something out of place, something the forest didn't want to accept.
One of them moved first, her steps slow and controlled. She raised a gloved hand and hovered it above the fading trace of energy. The glove was marked with tight, angular runes, each one pulsing faintly beneath the surface.
"This residue," she said, her voice calm but sharp, "it matches the Heavenly Devouring Pulse Art."
The second figure shifted behind her. His reply came after a pause, low and skeptical.
"Are you certain?"
She didn't answer.
Her fingers curled. The clearing fell quiet again.
The second figure tilted his head slightly, the faint mist around his hood shifting with the motion. Though his face remained hidden, the doubt in his tone was clear.
"Are you sure you're sensing this right? The higher-ups said they had already dealt with him."
Her gaze stayed fixed on the energy in the air. There was no hesitation in her voice.
"I'm sure. This energy is the same as his."
A pause settled between them, the silence pressed tight with tension.
"If you're right," he said quietly, "then we need to report this. Immediately."
Without another word, the space around them began to darken. Shadows rippled at their feet, twisting upward in slow, rising tendrils. The clearing dimmed, and in the span of a breath, the figures vanished. The lingering traces of dark energy faded with them, leaving the forest still once more.
Shi Yao stepped through the outer gates, the stone underfoot still familiar, though something in him had changed. The air within the sect walls felt calmer, more contained, but his mind didn't rest. Not yet.
The injured disciple remained motionless across his back, light but still breathing.
He crossed the courtyard without stopping, moving past disciples who paused mid-step as he passed. No one spoke. A few glanced at him, confused by the sight of blood-stained robes and a lifeless figure slumped against him.
The infirmary stood just beside the resource hall, its wooden doors open to the breeze. Shi Yao pushed them aside and stepped inside.
The scent of crushed herbs and drying parchment greeted him. Pale light filtered through latticed windows, cutting across clean mats and quiet shelves.
A healer turned at the sound of his approach.
"He needs help," Shi Yao said. His voice was calm, but firm.
The woman didn't question. She called for two attendants, and they quickly lifted the boy from his back and laid him down on one of the mats. Shi Yao stepped back as they worked, his eyes still on the boy's chest, watching for the slow, unsteady rise of each breath.
Only once the healers surrounded him did Shi Yao finally let go.
His fists relaxed at his sides.
The mission was complete.
After leaving the infirmary, Shi Yao made his way across the sect courtyard. Sunlight cut clean lines across the paving stones, and disciples moved between halls with quiet purpose. Routine returned quickly here. Nothing ever paused for long.
The Resource Hall sat where it always had, its tall doors open, the scent of parchment and polished wood wafting out as Shi Yao stepped inside.
The interior was orderly — long counters, shelves of jade slips and scrolls, disciples murmuring over mission boards. At the front desk, a clerk sat with a brush in hand, idly recording submissions.
Shi Yao approached the counter and placed his mission slip down.
"I've completed my mission," he said. "Can I receive my contribution points now?"
The clerk didn't look up immediately. "Name?"
"Shi Yao."
The man glanced over the slip, confirming the official seal and task report.
"Scouting patrol... outer perimeter, returning one injured disciple," he muttered. "Reward: fifty contribution points."
He reached beneath the desk, pulled out a black contribution token, and pressed it lightly against a glowing glyph etched into the counter. A soft pulse of light confirmed the transfer.
He slid the token across the surface without ceremony.
"All recorded. You're free to take another mission if needed."
Shi Yao took the token and slipped it into his sleeve. He gave a small nod and turned to leave.
The clerk glanced up one more time, as if noticing something unfamiliar in the boy's quiet footsteps — not confusion, not concern. Just... observation.
The wooden doors of the resource hall closed behind him.
Shi Yao stepped into the sunlight. The path ahead was crowded. Disciples walked in pairs or small groups, some laughing, others trading contribution slips.
He walked alone.
The rules are clear. Contribution points. Missions. Merit. But most of the structure is still unclear to me.
He passed the outer training grounds. Two disciples sparred beneath a formation dome. One lost his footing and hit the ground hard.
The other didn't even glance at him.
No one steps in. Everyone moves forward at their own pace. If you fall behind, you are left behind.
I wasn't raised here. I didn't grow up hearing about peaks, talismans, or cultivation methods. But the world won't wait for me to catch up.
So I won't wait, either.
The slope toward the Sixth Peak rose ahead. Noise from the sect grounds thinned. Trees grew thicker along the trail, and mist pooled along the edges of the stone path.
Shi Yao adjusted his sleeve and kept walking.
Two figures knelt on the cold floor.
The room around them was dim, lit only by hanging lanterns that flickered with dull red light. Stone pillars rose along the walls, etched with symbols long since blackened by smoke. The floor was tiled in obsidian, smooth but cracked in places. The air was heavy — thick with something that clung to the lungs.
At the far end of the room stood a throne. Jagged edges. Unpolished stone. A figure sat motionless atop it, draped in black robes. A horned mask covered his face, shaped to resemble a beast, or perhaps a god long forgotten.
Three fox-like beasts lay at his feet. Each one massive, fur dark and tangled, eyes barely open.
One of the kneeling figures lowered his head further.
"Sir," he said. "We found traces of the Heavenly Devouring Pulse Art. At the Mistwind Trail."
Silence.
Then the masked figure leaned forward.
"…What did you just say?"
Red light spilled from beneath the mask — slow at first, then sharp, cutting through the stillness like a blade. The air trembled.
The kneeling figure answered again, voice firm.
"I said we found traces of the Heavenly Devouring Pulse Art. It's recent."
The figure raised one hand.
Without a sound, one of the foxes collapsed — its head caved in by force that left no mark. Blood spread slowly beneath its fur.
A crushing pressure fell over the room. The two kneeling figures sank lower as the stone beneath them cracked.
"He's still alive?" the masked figure muttered. "Impossible. I killed him myself."
He stood.
"You two. Find him."
Before the words had fully settled, the two figures dissolved into streaks of shadow and disappeared.