The ward strip over their gate was flat at dawn. Lin Yue raised a palm near it, not touching, just feeling. Cool, steady. No ripple like last night.
"Good," Jian Zhi said, quiet.
"You checked while I slept," Lin Yue said.
"You snore like a polite cat," Jian Zhi replied.
"I don't snore," Lin Yue said.
"You don't," Jian Zhi agreed so fast Lin Yue had to smother a laugh.
Aunt knocked and then let herself in. She carried a basket like a weapon. "Buns. Two pork, two greens. One sweet bean. Don't fight over it. If you do, I will win."
"We wouldn't fight you," Lin Yue said.
"You shouldn't fight anyone," Aunt said, and shoved the basket at Jian Zhi because she trusted him to divide food like a judge.
They ate walking to the square. Mei Ling was already there, pockets full of something that crackled. Han Feng bounced on his toes like a spring he didn't trust. Hai and Da Ren had nets and a small coil of rope that looked both useful and hopeful.
Shen checked travel tags at the gate. "Pairs. Same order as yesterday," he called. His gaze slid once to the ridge and back. "We'll go past the basin if the road holds."
"Past?" Mei Ling mouthed to Lin Yue, delighted and afraid in the same face.
"Don't feed the road ideas," Lin Yue murmured.
Instructor Mei peeled the village ward strip, folded it neat, tucked it away. "Door open," she said, the same as yesterday, but there was a new line at the corner of her mouth like bad sleep.
They stepped out. Cool air with that metal edge flowed down from the notch. Bells under the pavilion gave a small click, like a throat clearing.
"Forward," Shen said, and they went.
The first stretch felt easier, maybe because they knew what their feet wanted. Lin Yue counted to the oak, then stopped counting and let his body do it. Scarecrows watched with button eyes. They did not blink. Good.
"Don't throw a pebble," Lin Yue told Mei Ling without looking.
"I wasn't going to," she said, already palming one. She sighed and dropped it. "You ruin all my hobbies."
"Try breathing," Jian Zhi told her.
"I tried that yesterday," she said. "It was fine."
The road lifted. The stream to the north shone like a knife. The ridge showed its deep bite. Han Feng didn't say "don't lag" this time. Good. Progress.
At the bend where they had found the old ward strip, Lin Yue looked for the chalk crane on the trunk. There it was, a little smeared from dew. He liked that someone could find it later and know a thing had been noticed.
"Formation," Shen called at the same narrow stretch. Mei tapped the staggered dots again with chalk. They walked the circle slow, then smoother, then quicker. The tug came—soft this time, like a person testing a door—but the line held. Jian Zhi steadied the mill girl and did not make a face. Yao Ren stayed in his spot and watched his feet as if they were small liars.
"Good," Shen said. "Remember that feeling. The road is less interested in you when you are boring."
"We can do boring," Mei Ling said. "I'm a master."
"You're a disaster," Han Feng said, with no heat.
She bumped him with an elbow. "We can be both."
They reached the shelf of cleared stones. The strip of red cloth tied to the scrub branch lay still. No false wind. Lin Yue liked that and then remembered he didn't trust liking things too much.
"Short drink," Shen called. "No wandering."
They drank. Lin Yue passed his skin to Jian Zhi; Jian Zhi took it without looking, drank, wiped the lip, handed it back. Small things. Smooth.
A soft noise came from the trees—hoof, not paw. A pack pony stepped onto the road, reins dragging, eyes rolling white. It wasn't wild, just scared and tired. The leather had a frayed patch about to part.
"It'll bolt," Da Ren said.
"It'll catch its leg and break something," Hai said.
Shen didn't draw a blade. He didn't shout. He lifted his hand chest-high and let his breath go out slow. Not words. Not a trick. Just breath. The air pressed down, gentle and solid as a palm. The pony's ears pricked. It stopped, blew hard, and stood trembling.
Shen stepped in and caught the reins. He pressed two fingers to the pony's neck. Lin Yue felt it from where he stood—a thin ripple in the air, like a plucked string settling. The animal's shaking eased. Shen cut the frayed place with a quick knife and knotted the leather tight in a way that would hold, then turned the pony toward the village with a pat that was more like a command.
"Go home," he said. The pony went.
"Foundation," Han Feng breathed, then winced when Mei gave him a look. Words listen. Right.
"Good knot," Lin Yue muttered, because admiration could travel as craft.
"Learn it later," Jian Zhi said, and Lin Yue filed that under things to steal for future use.
They moved on. Past the basin, the path dipped under low pine. Needles cushioned steps. The world went shade-cool, with damp earth and old resin smells. The basin lay behind them like a held breath.
"Do we do the circle again?" Mei Ling whispered.
"Not here," Shen said. "Step light. Don't drag your feet. Don't—"
Something on the left.
Lin Yue didn't hear it so much as feel the hair on his neck stand up. Jian Zhi's hand brushed his sleeve—warning, not fear. Shen turned his head a fraction. His right hand sketched the air—short lines, a quick square. He didn't draw a talisman; he traced a net and let it hang.
The net wasn't visible. It was like dust wanted to make a shape and then changed its mind. But Lin Yue felt it settle, thin as spider silk.
A snake slid across the path—no spirit glow, just flesh and hunger. The net kissed its head, not a blow, a pressure. The snake turned, slow as a thought, and went away into the needles.
"Peaceful," Mei Ling whispered, impressed. "I would have screamed and thrown a shoe."
"You need your shoes," Jian Zhi said.
"Also true," she said.
Lin Yue marked the spot in his head. Shen had done something with breath and habit and the four strokes they kept writing. Hold, Bind, Turn, Listen. He liked that the order worked on more than paper.
"Tracks," Han Feng called softly from the front. He crouched at a patch where the needles broke. "Boar. Same tusk chip maybe."
"More than one," Jian Zhi said, scanning. "See the stagger."
Han Feng glanced at him and nodded like he refused to be surprised Jian Zhi had eyes.
Shen shook his head. "Not new. Last night. They went fast. From there—" he pointed toward the notch— "to there." He pointed downslope.
"Running away," Mei Ling said.
"From what?" Hai asked.
Shen didn't answer. He didn't need to. The road bent, and they saw the small waypost.
It was a stone pillar as high as a man, with a little roof and a shelf for offerings—joss sticks, a dish for coins, a slot for notes to the road. One ward strip faced the path, one faced the slope. Both were scorched at the corners, not burned through, but singed like someone had tried to light them with wet tinder. A bowl lay cracked on the ground. Ash dusted the shelf in a perfect circle, which meant wind had not dared to meddle.
"Don't touch," Instructor Mei said, already moving. She set her satchel down, pulled out fresh strips, paste, a thin brush. Her hands were fast but careful. She scraped the old glue, cleaned the stone with water from a skin, and set a new Hold, Bind, Turn, Listen right over the scorched one. The stroke for Turn she let breathe that extra heartbeat she always talked about. The strip settled. The air changed a finger's width.
Shen stepped up beside her and lifted his bronze box lid a finger. The vanes inside spun, held, spun, dipped. He closed the lid at once and rested his palm on top as if to keep it from thinking too much.
"Bad air?" Han Feng asked before he remembered not to ask.
"Thin air," Shen said. "Used, then left."
"By what?" Mei Ling whispered.
Shen looked at the roof of the waypost. A single pine needle had drooped and stuck in the paste, making a tiny bump. He plucked it off with two fingers. "By something that doesn't like tidy work," he said.
He and Mei did not argue about who would paste the second side. He pasted, she held. They did it like people who had done it a hundred times, each moving into the other's empty space.
"Forward," Shen said when it was set. "No coins today. We pay with care."
They went on. The path left the pines and crossed a rocky stretch where the sun hit hard. Lin Yue's neck warmed. He took off a layer and tied it around his waist. He watched Jian Zhi do the same and thought, uselessly, that Jian Zhi's movements made even tying cloth neat.
"You're staring," Mei Ling noted.
"I'm thinking," Lin Yue said.
"Same face," she said. "I worry."
"You worry all the time," Han Feng told her.
"Yes," she said. "I will outlive you." She speed-walked a step, just to be a problem.
Da Ren asked, "What's beyond the basin?" He tried to make it casual.
"Trees," Hai said, saving him from wanting too much.
"Road," Lin Yue said. "And questions."
"Ugh," Mei Ling said. "I hate questions."
"No," Jian Zhi said softly. "You hate waiting."
"That too," she said.
They rounded a low spur of rock and saw the outpost.
It wasn't big. A low wall of stacked stone. A gate with a simple beam. Inside, a shade roof, a bench, a water jar on a stand. Someone had painted a small crane on the gate beam last season. It was faded now, but still proud.
Silence.
No guard. No kettle. The water jar had tipped and lay on its side, wet sand dark under it where the last of the water had leaked and dried. A bowl sat on the bench with a smear of mustard on the rim like a mouth wiped in a hurry. A ward post beside the gate had a strip that was half-peeled and hanging, glue still glossy.
Shen lifted his hand. "Stop."
Everyone stopped. Even Mei Ling's mouth stopped.
Shen moved forward alone, slow. He did not step in shadow. He did not step on clean sand. He stepped where footprints already were. He reached the half-peeled strip, pressed two fingers to the edge of paste, and breathed very carefully, in and then out. The glue cooled under his touch. He pressed the strip back. It held.
"Dead?" Han Feng whispered.
Shen shook his head once. "No bodies. No blood." His eyes went to four places fast: the gate beam, the shade roof, the bench leg, the space under the water stand. "No fight."
"Then what?" Mei Ling whispered.
"Quick leaving," Jian Zhi said. He pointed—lightly, with his chin—at a set of scuffs. "They went out. Two. One heavier. One dragging a foot."
"Careful," Instructor Mei said, but she didn't stop him because he was right.
Lin Yue's eyes found more: a snapped splinter near the hinge, a smear on the bench—sap, not blood—a bent nail in the gate where the beam had dropped too fast. He crouched and picked up a little jade token fallen between stones. It was cheap—county issue—but the back had a crane mark burned in and the front had a number and half a name. …Zhi. The rest was scorched away.
He didn't say anything. He handed it to Shen.
Shen's mouth thinned a fraction. "One of ours," he said softly. Not theirs, not Azure Crane yet. But local ward keepers often trained with the academy. kin by trade.
"Tracks," Han Feng said. "There." He pointed to where a smear of water had made dark shapes in the dust. Not hoof. Not boot. Something broad, three-clawed, close together, like a hand that had forgotten it was a hand.
"Spirit beast?" Mei Ling asked.
Shen didn't answer. He set his palm above the prints, not touching, and let breath go into the space. The air cooled a finger. He closed his eyes as if listening to a drum no one else could hear.
"Cold," he said. "Not snake. Not boar. Not cat. Old smell. Not new." He opened his eyes. "Fast pass. One thing only, then gone."
"After them?" Hai asked, meaning the missing two.
"Maybe," Shen said. "Or before them." He looked at the half-peeled ward strip again like it had almost told him a joke and then forgot the punchline.
Instructor Mei moved to the shade roof and set a new strip there, too. Her hand shook once. She scowled at it and the shake left. She did the stroke for Listen very slow. The air under the roof felt… better. Like standing in order.
"Water skins," Shen said. "Fill from the jar by the rock trough down the slope. Not the outpost jar. Check the trough first. If there's slime, skip it."
"Ew," Mei Ling said, and then went with Han Feng and Da Ren because she was the kind who said ew and then did the job anyway.
Jian Zhi stepped near Lin Yue as if drawn by thread. "You're quiet," he said.
"I'm listening," Lin Yue said. "The road has a voice today."
"What does it say?" Jian Zhi asked.
"Not yet," Lin Yue said, and wished he had a better answer.
Shen walked the wall once more. He set his hand on the gate beam and pressed two fingers into the grain. When he lifted them, the wood had a small, neat dent like a seal. Not showy. The beam sat straighter.
"Foundation," Han Feng breathed for the third time in two days, then looked like he wanted to bite his own tongue.
"Words listen," Mei reminded him, but softer now. Fear and respect share a color.
The group regrouped fast. Water skins filled. Nets re-coiled. The little jade token lay in Shen's palm for one more breath, then disappeared into his sleeve.
"We can go around," Hai said, pointing at a faint goat path that cut across the slope.
"We can," Shen said. He looked at the clawed prints, the dragged foot scuff, the mustard smear. He looked at the notch. "We will go forward."
Mei opened her mouth. Closed it. Nodded. Good.
"Same order," Shen said. "No chatter. If I stop, you freeze. If I say down, you get low. If I say run, you run toward the village. You don't look back."
"No one says run," Mei Ling whispered to Lin Yue. "Right?"
"Don't ask the road for lines," Lin Yue said.
They crossed the threshold of the outpost. Lin Yue felt something brush his skin—not touch, not wind—like the lightest thread dragging across his arm hair. He didn't flinch. Jian Zhi's fingers brushed his wrist once, casual to anyone watching, anchor to the body wearing it.
Beyond the outpost, the road narrowed into scrub and young pine. Sun made small coins on the path. Insects buzzed and then stopped all at once, which is worse than buzzing.
A small shrine sat crooked under a jack pine—stone fox with a broken ear, a bowl of dried berries turned to dust. Its ward strip had fallen into the dirt and lay face down. Mei knelt without being told, brushed it clean, wrote a fresh one with quick strokes, and set it in place with paste. She didn't lecture anyone for letting it fall because today wasn't a day for lectures. Today the road wanted yes/no answers.
Shen lifted his bronze box again, opened the lid a finger. The vanes spun, dipped, held steady. He breathed out. "Not worse," he said.
"Not better?" Han Feng asked.
Shen didn't answer. He set the box down, pressed his palm to the ground beside it, and tapped a small rhythm. The sound was soft as a moth. The earth gave a faint reply two beats later, like a knock under a table. Shen stood. "Forward."
The path rose into rock stacked like plates. The notch ahead made a dark wedge. Lin Yue's breath felt normal. His heart did not. He thought of the boar turning away yesterday. He thought of the scorched corners on the waypost strip. He thought of the ward over their own gate quivering when no wind moved.
"Lin Yue," Jian Zhi said, low.
"Yes."
"Don't get lost in your head."
"I live there," Lin Yue said.
"Come out when I call," Jian Zhi said.
"I will," Lin Yue said, and meant it.
They reached a cut where the road narrowed to two bodies side by side. Shen stopped and raised his hand. Everyone froze, even the air.
He didn't say why. He took one slow step and then another, and Lin Yue saw it: a hair-fine thread across the path, fixed to two stones with a pinch of paste. Not string. A talisman line with its writing rubbed off until only habit remained.
"Trap?" Mei Ling breathed.
"Alarm," Shen said, so quiet Lin Yue almost didn't hear. "Not ours."
He didn't cut it. He didn't step over it. He moved his hand through the air—small square, short line—Hold, Bind done without paper. The line sagged like a tired spider web. Shen brushed it. It broke without waking whatever it was tied to. He tapped the paste with one finger. It cooled. He crushed the two hardened dots between thumb and forefinger and dusted the crumbs away.
"Foundation," Han Feng mouthed, this time with joy, like watching a locksmith open a door with nothing but breath.
They passed. The scrub opened into a small flat shelf with three stunted pines and a view down to green fields. It might have been beautiful if not for the sound.
It came first as weight in the ribs. Then the air shook—low, steady, like a drum hit under stone. Not thunder. Not footfall. A pulse. Once. Twice. Again. Slow and patient, like someone knocking very far away on a big door.
Mei's head turned toward the notch. "That's—"
"Down," Shen said, voice soft and terrible. "Now."
They dropped. Not neat. Not pretty. Hands hit grit. Knees found rock. Lin Yue's cheek brushed dust and a dead pine needle. He kept his eyes on Jian Zhi's hand near his sleeve. That steadied his heart more than the ground did.
The pulse rolled through a fourth time. The three stunted pines breathed the sound and let it go. The strip on the fox shrine far behind them quivered, then lay still.
Silence fell like a cloth.
Shen lifted his head the smallest amount. He listened with his whole back. "Up," he said. "Slow."
They stood. No one spoke. Even Mei Ling's jokes had run out.
Shen did not say backward. He looked at the wedge of the notch, then down to the fields, then at his people.
"We go to the next rise," he said. "Then we turn. We leave markers. We don't come alone again."
"What about the outpost?" Mei asked.
"Strip holds," Shen said. "If it fails, our gate strip will quiver twice." He looked at Lin Yue as he said it, like he knew who had seen the quiver last night. "Tell me if you notice."
"I'll see," Lin Yue said.
They made the next rise in silence. There, a simple marker stone sat half-buried with a crane scratched shallow on its face. Someone had been here in other years when the world was less noisy. Shen crouched, put his palm on the scratch, and pushed a thin breath into it. The scratch darkened, not with ink, with attention.
"Marker set," he said. "Turn."
People turned. They did not argue because no one wanted to argue with the road when it was listening.
On the way back through the cut, Shen stopped at the broken alarm line. He lifted his hand to check for a second thread—and paused. The paste smudge where he had crushed the dots was still there, faint, but the wind had not taken it. Good. No one had followed their pass yet.
They reached the outpost. The beam sat straighter where Shen had pressed it. The mustard smear had dried. The ward strip Instructor Mei pasted under the shade was still cool and clean.
Inside the gate, the world felt louder again. People talked. Feet scuffed. Someone coughed and then apologized for existing. It was a relief to be around noise.
At the village gate, Instructor Mei set the folded strip back in place with one quick press. It settled. The air at the threshold changed a finger's width toward right.
Shen faced them. "Sleep early. Paste fresh strips at dusk. If your ward hums, don't be brave; remove it and put a new one. If your lantern smokes, trim the wick. If your neighbor's lantern smokes, trim theirs. We meet at first light."
"Tonight?" Mei Ling asked, voice back, because safety makes jokes grow.
"Tonight, you write your circles until your wrist warms and your mind stops trying too hard," Instructor Mei said. "And you don't blow on the ink, you animals."
Aunt materialized with bowls like a general with rations. "You went out, you came back," she said to everyone. "Eat. Then do it again."
They ate under the willow. The soup tasted like chicken and a lecture. Lin Yue let the day settle inside him, not heavy, just true.
Jian Zhi set his bowl down, leaned slightly closer. "You heard the pulse," he said.
"In my ribs," Lin Yue said.
"In your teeth?" Jian Zhi asked.
"Yes," Lin Yue said.
"Me too," Jian Zhi said, so quiet only the soup heard.
Before Lin Yue could answer, the ward strip above their gate quivered. Once. Twice. Then lay still.
Jian Zhi's eyes cut to Lin Yue. Lin Yue was already standing. He didn't shout for Shen. He didn't run to the square. He stepped to the gate, set his hand close to the paper, and listened.
No wind. No footsteps in the lane. No voices. Just the air moving wrong for a breath and then right again, like someone had set their palm on the village with a question and lifted it.
"Shen said twice," Jian Zhi reminded, voice low.
"Twice," Lin Yue said. His mouth had gone dry. "That's twice."
From the far end of the lane, the small travel bell over the ward hall door clicked once—hard, bright—and then went silent. The click ran along the lintels like a coin under cloth, whispering to every strip it passed.
Aunt stepped into the doorway, bowl in one hand, ladle in the other. "Don't like that," she said.
"Me neither," Lin Yue said.
He looked toward the square. He didn't see Shen, but he didn't need to. He felt the way the road inside the village bent, as if a new line had been drawn from their gate to the ridge and back to the outpost and then to the ward hall.
Jian Zhi touched his sleeve. "We don't run," he said.
"No," Lin Yue said. "We go tell him."
They took one step onto the lane.
Three pale lights bloomed and held across the open mouth of the road beyond the village gate—curved, patient, like a smile that didn't reach the eyes.
They did not flare. They did not fade. They waited.
"Inside," Aunt said very calmly, though her hands were not calm at all. "Now."
Lin Yue did not move.
"Jian Zhi," he said, not looking away from the lights.
"Yes."
"Don't let go."
"I won't," Jian Zhi said, and didn't.