The torchlight spread like oil on black water, slow and deliberate, until the basin's rim glowed in an uneven ring. Qin Mo counted them—eight flames, moving with the same pace, same spacing. Soldiers or trained killers. Either way, not here by chance.
[Predator's Ledger: New markers — hostile, human. Bloodline match: Azure Flame Sect affiliates, 71%.]
He dropped into the shadow of the cracked altar. His breath was steady now, but each draw carried a metallic aftertaste from the leash's remnants. The shard against his ribs throbbed in warning.
Boots crunched on grit. Voices filtered down—low, clipped, and in the kind of tone men used when they were executing orders they didn't fully agree with.
"…no sign of the beast?"
"Dead. King's hide split at the shoulder. Not clean work—looked like a fight, not a trap."
A pause. "Then someone beat us to it."
The copper-eyed thing was gone. No scent, no shadow. Just the faint impression in the gravel where its weight had pressed. Qin Mo had no illusions it had fled out of fear—it had simply decided the hunt was over.
The torches shifted closer.
He eased away from the altar, angling toward the cooler seam in the basin wall. His left boot found the crack, his right followed. The rock was slick with frost where the vent's breath touched it.
A voice cut through the murmur above. "Search the basin. No one leaves until the seal fragment is recovered."
Seal fragment. His fingers brushed the black lacquer cylinder in his robe. The same kind they had hidden in the wolf king. That meant whoever was up there knew exactly what he carried.
[Quest condition: conceal or secure the fragment. Failure will result in loss of item and related chain.]
A single torch broke from the rim and descended, weaving between monoliths. The light threw the searcher's face into relief—sharp features, eyes scanning with a professional's rhythm. His left hand rested loose on a short blade, the right held the torch high.
Qin Mo let the man pass the altar, then moved.
Flame Step whispered under his feet, just enough to cross the frost without a sound. The point touched the man's throat before the torch wavered.
"Quiet," Qin Mo murmured.
The man froze, then tried to turn his head. Qin Mo pressed the edge a fraction closer.
"Fragment," Qin Mo said. "You know where the others are?"
"They—" the man began, but his gaze flicked toward the rim. A signal.
Qin Mo pivoted, pulling him into the shadow as a second torch came down fast. Two sets of boots hit gravel almost together. They moved like pairs who'd drilled this—one high, one low, blades ready.
The first swung for his legs. Qin Mo caught it on the flat, twisted, and shoved the man into his partner. The torch clattered to the stone, rolling toward the spiral's dead lines.
[Environmental note: residual resonance at 12%.]
The air warmed fractionally as the lines fed on the torch's heat. Not enough to revive the grid, but enough to make the shard in his chest twitch.
One attacker recovered, stabbing high. Qin Mo stepped inside, catching the wrist and turning it over. Bone cracked under pressure. He ripped the blade free and let it fall. The other came from the side. Qin Mo ducked under, drove an elbow into the ribs, and swept the legs.
Both men hit the ground.
He didn't kill them. Not yet. "Where's your handler?"
Silence.
He pressed a knee to the first man's chest, feeling the breath shift from defiance to calculation. "You think dying here serves the Sect? You think they'll remember your name?"
Still nothing.
Fine.
He struck, a quick blow to the temple that left the man limp. The second took longer—tensing, trying to roll away—but the cold seam at Qin Mo's back meant there was nowhere to go. When he stopped moving, Qin Mo dragged them both into the shadow of a monolith and took their blades.
The torches on the rim moved faster now. They'd noticed the missing light. Voices barked orders. Four broke off and began to descend.
He needed height.
The basin wall was sheer in places, fractured in others. He chose the fracture, fingers finding holds more by habit than sight. The first few meters burned his arms. The next few put him above the level of the altar, where the torches' glow thinned.
Below, the descending group spread out, covering angles. These weren't the undisciplined hirelings he'd met at the pass—they moved in a grid, scanning every shadow.
The shard pulsed again. He ignored it and climbed.
At the rim, the wind cut colder. The trees beyond shifted with it, and somewhere far off, another bell rang—two short, one long. Different pattern. Different caster.
[Ledger update: secondary hostile faction detected. Identity unknown. Conflict between hostiles probable.]
That could be an opportunity—or a trap.
He stayed low, using the rim's rock as cover, and angled toward the sound. The forest smelled of wet leaves and pine pitch. Every few steps, the shard vibrated, as if something ahead was pulling on it.
Half a dozen paces later, the trees thinned into a clearing. In the center stood a figure in travel leathers, hood up, face hidden. No torch. No weapon visible. Only a string of small bells tied to the left wrist, each etched with sigils that caught the moonlight.
The figure tilted their head, listening. "You're late."
Qin Mo didn't move from the treeline. "You knew I was coming?"
"I knew they'd drive you here." The voice was low, female, calm. She tapped one bell, and the sound was so soft it barely disturbed the air—yet the shard at his ribs went still.
He stepped closer. "You're not with them."
"No," she said. "But you're carrying something they've bled half a season to get. Give it to me, and you walk out of these mountains alive."
The torches were still climbing in the basin behind him. The bells on her wrist swayed gently, each one promising silence or signal, depending on her choice.
He didn't answer.