Orin walked through the forest, Scar's bulk weighing down on him like a sack of wet grain. The trees seemed taller and bigger in this part of the forest, their branches stretching at the dimming sky, leaves rustling in a breeze that smelled like the faint tang of moss and earth.
Behind him, the matron's spy—a skinny kid named Tep—darted from bush to bush, his breath hitching every time a twig snapped under his feet.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling into his wide, terrified eyes.
"If Brother Orin's really possessed, he thought, heart hammering, why did she send me after him? Does she want me dead?"
He ducked lower, clutching his small stick like a lifeline, peering through the foliage as Orin's shadowed figure moved ahead.
Scar's weight was starting to drag him even more. Scar was older, broader, and a good head taller than Orin, who was barely seventeen and wiry from years of scraps.
"How are you holding up?" Orin asked, voice rough from the strain.
No answer.
He slowed, twisting to glance at Scar's face, the sight was amusing. His face was slack, eyes shut, a faint snore rumbling out.
Orin blinked, then let out a dry chuckle. "Seriously? Asleep? And while standing up in this mess?"
He shook his head, amused despite the ache in his arm. The forest stretched quiet around them, no birds, no wind—just the crunch of his boots on pine needles. They'd made it deep enough; the orphanage's stink was gone.
Orin shifted Scar, sliding him onto his right shoulder, gripping him tight. He flexed his right hand—the tattoo under the cloth hummed, dark qi threading through his veins like ink on water.
With a slow breath, he tapped into it, just enough. Strength surged, lightening Scar's load like he was a kid again. He kept moving, steady now, the glow faint but steady under the cloth. Behind a thicket, Tep froze, jaw dropping. The black threads snaking up Orin's arm glinted in the fading light, sharp and unnatural. His stick slipped an inch in his sweaty grip.
"I-is Brother Orin really a demon…?"
He whispered, voice trembling. He swallowed hard, edging back, but couldn't tear his eyes away. Minutes later, the roar of the waterfall cut through the stillness. Orin stepped into the familiar clearing—rocks slick with mist, the air cool and damp.
Old Han sat on a flat stone, hunched over his stick, his gray robes blending with the shadows. His sharp eyes flicked up as Orin approached, narrowing as they ran from Scar's limp form to Orin's sweat-streaked face.
Orin eased Scar down onto the mossy ground, his chest heaving as he straightened. "Made it," he panted, brushing dirt off his hands.
Old Han tilted his head, sizing them up. "You're late." He rasped, voice like gravel. "And dragging deadweight this time. What's the story, kid?"
He peered closely at Orin, as if trying to study him.
Orin shook his head, wiping his brow. "I would rather not say..."
But the old man was no longer interested in that too, he suddenly stood up, a look of surprise painting his face as he walked closer to Orin, sniffing at him.
"wait.." he said, his voice rising. "That sound...what's that I hear? You've unblocked your spirit vein?"
The awe cracked through his usual gruff tone, and he stepped back, looking at Orin like he'd just sprouted wings. He was now seeing Orin in a new light.
Orin nodded, casual but tired. "Yeah, it's done." He jerked a thumb at Scar. "He needs help first. We'll talk after."
Old Han grunted, hobbling over to Scar. He crouched, knees creaking, and ran a calloused hand over the enforcer's bruised face, muttering under his breath. "I'm not a healer, but I've got something."
He planted his stick upright in the dirt, its tip glowing a faint green as he pressed both palms together. "Watch this, kid—might learn a trick." He exhaled slow, qi rippling from his hands in thin, shimmering strands—pale green, like new leaves catching light. "Verdant Pulse," he said, voice steady.
The strands coiled around Scar, sinking into his skin where the bruises bloomed darkest—his swollen eyes, the split lip, the welt on his jaw. The green pulsed once, twice, then faded, leaving Scar's breathing deeper, less ragged.
His face didn't heal outright, but the purple softened, the cuts stopped oozing. Old Han pulled back, wiping his hands on his robe.
"It's an old field trick, it feeds energy into the body's roots and keeps it steady. It won't fix him fast, it should take a few days, maybe—but he's definitely not getting any worse than this. That's what counts."
Orin nodded, crouching beside Scar to check his pulse, it was slow but solid. "Good enough," he said, relieved. "Thanks."
Old Han straightened, leaning on his stick again, eyes narrowing as he turned back to Orin. "Now—spill it. How did you pull this off?" He stepped closer, peering at the cloth on Orin's hand like it held all the answers.
"Unblocking a vein like that—takes more than luck. What'd you do, kid?"