The forest road narrows as the sun sinks, its last light slanting through tall, untended trees and breaking into long bands of gold and shadow across the dirt path.
Merin rides at the forefront.
Behind him stretch two groups, ordered but tense: members of the Divine Guards in disciplined formation, and his own family guards riding slightly wider, watching the flanks. Hooves beat a steady rhythm against packed earth, muffled by fallen leaves and old pine needles that have not been cleared in years.
This road is rarely used.
Too close to the forest.
Too far from patrol routes.
Merin's eyes remain half-lidded, posture relaxed, reins loose in his hands, but his spirit spreads outward like an invisible tide. It flows between tree trunks, over low brush, through uneven ground, brushing against every breath, every movement, every pulse of hostile intent.
Then—
He feels it.
A tightening ahead.
A wrongness in the air, thin but sharp, like a wire pulled taut.
"Stop."
His voice cuts through the forest.
Merin pulls the reins, and his horse halts sharply, muscles bunching beneath him. The riders behind him react instantly, horses slowing, then stopping in sequence, weapons lifting, formations tightening without panic.
Merin raises a hand.
"Ambush up ahead."
The words have barely left his mouth when the forest answers.
A hiss.
Then another.
Arrows tear out of the undergrowth on both sides of the path, dark shafts streaking through the dim light, aimed at throats, chests, and horses' eyes.
Merin does not move forward.
He does not shout.
He extends his palm.
Blood Qi surges out, restrained, controlled, shaped to appear no stronger than the minor success stage of inner refining. From his hand, sword Qi bursts forth in thin, precise arcs, flashing pale in the fading sunlight.
The arrows never reach their targets.
Steel heads shatter.
Wood splinters.
Fragments rain harmlessly onto the path and forest floor.
Before the echoes fade, figures erupt from the trees.
Tall.
Burly.
Men wrapped in animal hides, faces painted in crude markings, muscles thick and corded from hard lives. They roar as they charge, voices raw and feral, wielding axes, spears, and heavy blades that have seen too much blood.
Merin's men surge forward to meet them.
The clash is immediate.
Metal rings against metal.
Horses scream.
The narrow path becomes chaos as Divine Guards dismount in practised motion, shields locking, spears thrusting, blades flashing. Family guards break to the sides, cutting down ambushers trying to circle.
Merin remains where he is.
He does not draw his sword.
He watches.
His spirit sense sweeps the battlefield, not lingering on the obvious threats, but searching for absence rather than presence.
There.
Deeper in the forest.
Still.
Calm.
Someone has not joined the charge.
A spiritual refiner.
Fourth stage.
Their aura is carefully suppressed, masked beneath talismans and the noise of battle, but to Merin it stands out like a candle in fog.
The refiner does not act.
Merin does not pursue.
They wait, each aware of the other, as blades rise and fall between them.
The fight is brutal, but short.
The ambushers fight with fury, not discipline. Against trained Divine Guards, fury only carries them so far. One by one they fall, bodies hitting the dirt path and forest floor, blood darkening leaves and roots.
Minutes later, it is over.
The last ambusher collapses, throat cut, eyes wide and unseeing.
Silence creeps back in, broken only by heavy breathing and the crackle of settling fires from overturned torches.
Merin shifts slightly in his saddle.
The hidden refiner retreats.
Not running.
Walking.
Their presence slides backwards through the forest, measured and cautious, dissolving deeper into the trees until even Merin's spirit sense loses the thread.
Merin turns his head.
"Burn the bodies," he orders calmly. "Ours and theirs."
No hesitation follows.
His men move at once.
Oil flasks are brought out.
Torches lit.
Fallen comrades are gathered with care, laid side by side, while the bodies of the attackers are dragged into piles. Flames rise, licking upward, the smell of burning flesh quickly filling the air, thick and acrid.
Merin remains mounted, watching the fire consume everything.
The path ahead glows orange in the fading light.
Gong Qiu rides up beside him, his expression grim, armour smeared with blood that is not his own.
Ye Ran approaches from the other side, her gaze flicking once toward the forest before returning to Merin.
Ye Ran speaks first.
"The attack wasn't strong."
Merin nudges his horse forward.
The animal takes a slow step, hooves crunching on ash and broken arrows.
"It wasn't meant to be," he says evenly.
Gong Qiu follows, his horse falling into step behind Merin's.
"A welcome," Gong Qiu repeats, disbelief colouring his voice. He lets out a short chuckle. "I've never heard of such a welcome."
Merin's gaze stays fixed on the darkening path ahead.
"It's unique," he replies. "But it won't be the only one."
Gong Qiu's smile fades.
"Lord, are you saying they'll attack us again?"
"Yes."
Merin does not slow.
"They will," he continues. "Until we step into Gatewatch Peak Town."
Ye Ran rides a few steps behind, her horse's ears twitching nervously.
"So they're testing us," she says quietly.
Merin inclines his head a fraction.
"They want to gauge our strength before they talk with us."
Gong Qiu's grip tightens on his reins. "And if we fail?"
Ye Ran answers before Merin can, her voice low and flat. "That doesn't need asking. If we fail, then we're dead."
The words hang between them, heavy and unadorned, and for a moment no one speaks. Even the horses seem to sense it, their restless shifting slowing as the thought settles into the group.
Merin nods once.
"Don't worry," he says. "We will not fail."
He turns in the saddle, looking back at the men behind him—Divine Guards hardened by years of service, family guards who have followed him without question, faces lit by firelight and resolve.
"Let's ride some distance from here," he continues. "We'll find a place to camp."
He pulls the reins, and his horse surges forward, hooves thudding against the darkening road. The column follows, spreading slightly as they move, leaving behind the ashes and smoke of the ambush.
They ride until the forest thins and the ground rises gently, forming a natural clearing protected on three sides by trees and rock. Camp is established with quiet efficiency. Tents are raised, a perimeter set, fires lit low and shielded. Dinner is simple—dried meat, flatbread, a thin broth—but it fills bellies and steadies nerves.
As the night deepens, watches are assigned.
Most of the men retreat to rest.
Merin enters his tent alone.
He sits cross-legged on the ground, closes his eyes, and lets the outside world fall away. His awareness sinks inward, into the vast space of his dantian, where his Sea of Qi stretches and rolls. The sea is no longer formless. Its surface gleams bronze now, dense and heavy, refined layer upon layer, while at its centre a golden hue remains unmoving, calm and absolute, like a sun submerged beneath metal waves.
He refines slowly, carefully, drawing the Qi tighter, deeper, letting impurities burn away without haste. The tent is silent save for his breath.
Outside, the forest does not sleep.
Far from the camp, five figures gather in a hidden hollow between stones and twisted roots. They wear layered robes of bone, feather, and dark cloth, faces obscured by painted masks. Their movements are slow and rhythmic as they circle an idol planted into the earth.
The idol depicts a human body with wings spread wide, but its head is that of a vulture, beak hooked and cruel, eye sockets hollow and black. Old blood stains its base.
The priests begin to dance.
Their steps scrape against stone, their voices rise in a low chant, and with each turn the air thickens. Black mist seeps from the idol, coiling outward like breath exhaled from a lung that should not exist.
The mist flows.
It creeps through roots and grass, sliding low across the ground, spreading toward the distant camp.
Merin's eyes open.
He feels it instantly—a pressure, faint but invasive, like something testing the edges of his presence. He rises and steps out of the tent, boots silent on the earth.
The camp is quiet.
Too quiet.
Black mist coils at the perimeter, pressing against an unseen boundary, probing, waiting.
Merin exhales.
An attack.
But not one meant to be seen.
He understands at once. If he allows it to unfold, some of his men will die without ever drawing a blade. He cannot afford that. Not now. Not here.
He lifts his right hand and raises his index finger, pointing upward toward the dark sky.
Qi surges.
Sword Qi gathers at his fingertip, first faint, then sharp, condensing into a thin blade of light. Silver radiance spills outward, illuminating the camp in cold brilliance. The air hums with restrained power.
The fluctuation snaps everyone awake.
Guards rush from tents, weapons half-drawn, eyes wide as they take in the sight: Merin standing alone at the centre of the camp, arm raised, a sword of light forming at his finger, holding the black mist at bay as if it were nothing more than fog before the sun.
The silver sword grows brighter.
Denser.
Until it shines like a moon suspended in his hand.
Merin's gaze locks onto a point far beyond the camp, far beyond sight, guided by intent and understanding rather than vision.
He releases it.
The sword light shoots forward, silent and absolute, streaking through the forest like a thought given form. Trees part in its wake. The earth splits beneath its passage.
It does not wander.
It does not hesitate.
Like a homing missile, it finds the idol.
The impact is instantaneous.
Silver light erupts in a blinding flash, and the idol explodes, stone and bone pulverised into dust. The priests are caught mid-chant, bodies severed cleanly as the sword Qi passes through them, limbs falling away before blood can even spray.
The black mist screams.
Then vanishes.
The forest falls still.
No further attack comes that night.
Merin lowers his hand. The silver light fades, leaving only the quiet crackle of the campfire and the sound of men exhaling breaths they did not realise they were holding.
At dawn, the camp stirs again.
They eat, feed the horses, dismantle tents with practised speed. No one speaks much, but the fear that lingered after the ambush is gone, replaced by something steadier.
Confidence.
As the sun rises over the trees, Merin mounts his horse.
The column rides on, heading toward Gatewatch Peak Town, leaving behind shattered idols, dead priests, and the unspoken understanding that the true test has only begun.