The priest's lantern flickered in the wind as Han Li followed him across the frost-hardened fields. Each step crunched beneath his boots, the cold air biting at his cheeks. The night felt heavier than it should, as if the shadows themselves leaned in, curious to overhear.
They passed the last of the huts, roofs sagging under frost, and entered the tree line where the wind died. The muffled rustle of pine needles replaced it, and Han Li's breath misted in the sudden stillness. The priest didn't speak until the village lights had faded into a faint orange memory.
"After the bandit's death," the old man murmured, "rumors spread beyond the valley. People whisper of a farmer who killed a rogue cultivator with nothing but wit and crude steel."
Han Li kept his pace steady. "Rumors spread easily."
"They spread faster when backed by truth," the priest said, giving him a pointed look. "And when they smell of power."
Han Li felt the familiar hum of the System in the back of his mind—a predator's purr beneath his heartbeat. His fight with the rogue had been decisive, but… he'd also been lucky. And luck had the lifespan of a mayfly.
"What exactly are you warning me about?"
"That you carry a scent," the priest said, stopping beneath a leaning cedar. "Not sweat or soil, but qi. Raw, unripe… tempting. The kind that makes hunters come sniffing."
Hunters. Han Li's gut gave a slow, unpleasant twist. In cultivation terms, that didn't mean deer-stalkers—it meant opportunists: bandits, rogue cultivators, wandering disciples looking for prey that wouldn't bite back too hard.
"How long before they come?"
"They're already on their way."
The priest glanced around, then knelt and brushed aside a patch of moss. A smooth stone slab lay hidden beneath, etched with curling lines. His hand trembled—not from age, Han Li realized, but from the weight of whatever choice he was about to make.
"You're not ready," the priest said. "But neither can we afford to let you wither under fear. There's something you should see."
The slab shifted under his touch with a grinding groan. Beneath yawned a narrow shaft, the air rising from it cool and tinged with something… alive. Qi, dense and faintly sweet, like the scent of rain after a long drought.
Han Li crouched. "An underground chamber?"
The priest's eyes glimmered in the lamplight. "A shrine. Older than this village, older than the valley. Few know of it. Fewer should."
"Why me?"
The old man's mouth curled into something between a smile and a grimace. "Because the Root has already chosen you. I saw the signs the night you fought the bandit. The earth bent for you. The yin followed you."
Han Li's thoughts flickered to Mianhua's kiss, the rush of heat, the System's pings. If this shrine was tied to those same strange forces, stepping inside could be dangerous—or invaluable.
"I assume you expect me to go down."
"I expect you to survive what's coming."
Han Li took the lantern from him and began to descend. The stone steps were narrow enough that his shoulders brushed the walls.
The scent grew stronger—sweet, rich, almost intoxicating. The System's hum sharpened, like a beast catching the smell of blood.
[System Alert: Unknown energy source detected. Yin concentration: 42% above ambient.]
At the bottom, the passage widened into a cavern lit by a faint green glow. Vines as thick as a man's arm crawled across the walls, roots plunging deep into the cracks. In the center stood a carved pillar, its surface worn but still showing the form of a man—broad-shouldered, seated cross-legged, surrounded by women whose hair flowed like rivers.
Han Li froze.
The likeness wasn't perfect, but the man's posture… and that faint etching of a root-shaped mark on his chest… it matched the emblem from his System notifications.
He stepped closer.
[System Notice: Legacy Shrine recognized. Potential inheritance available.]
From above, the priest's voice carried down. "The elders called him the Root God. A trickster, a lover, a warrior. They say he drew strength not from meditation under waterfalls, but from bonds—especially with women rich in yin."
Han Li's lips curved slowly. "Sounds familiar."
He touched the pillar.
Heat surged through him, rushing from palm to chest. The System chimed, crisp and sharp.
[System Acquisition: Root Sense — Passive. Detects nearby yin-rich individuals. Range: 50 meters.]
Han Li staggered, breath quickening. The air suddenly had flavors—warmth, sweetness, spice. Mianhua's presence was faint but steady in the village… and there was something else. A second presence, bright and intoxicating, not far from the village square.
[Target Detected: Yin-rich potential partner. Compatibility: 87%.]
So this was the Root's gift—a compass, not for treasure or herbs, but for the kind of partners the System craved.
"Careful," the priest warned, his tone edged with more than caution. "The Root's blessing is a road of both pleasure and peril. The more you take, the more others will want to take from you."
Han Li climbed back up, the glow of the shrine still hot in his skull. The cold night air hit like a bucket of water, but the new awareness stayed, tugging at him.
As they walked toward the village, his eyes drifted in the direction of that second presence. Whoever she was, she was close… and the System wanted her in his orbit.
"What will you do with this gift?" the priest asked.
Han Li smirked. "Same thing I do with any tool. Use it."
The old man didn't smile. "Then sharpen it quickly. The hunters are not far."
Back in the shrine's dark, the new sense pulsed like a second heartbeat. Mianhua's steady warmth was reassuring, but now there was another—bright, untamed—flickering at the village's edge. Close enough to reach in minutes.
He thought of the priest's warning, of the carved god with his many wives. The System had never lied—it was always about this. Strength through connection. Progress through passion. And now… a way to find those connections on purpose.
[Side Objective Available: Investigate new yin-rich presence.]
The forge in him burned hotter than ever, and now it had roots. Roots that were already feeling for new soil.
Not yet. First, he'd let the night breathe. The presence wasn't going anywhere.