The forest was thick and damp, its canopy swallowing the noon sun and chopping the light into shards that shimmered over the carpet of wet leaves. The air was heavy—humid, fragrant, and stifling—with the mingled scent of soil, decay, and wild blossoms.
Every step was torment. Lin Yan leaned most of his weight against A Jin; his left shoulder screamed with each motion, and waves of dizziness rolled through him. Sweat soaked his torn clothes, stinging his wounds. Fever, exhaustion, and blood loss left him on the edge of collapse—kept upright only by sheer will.
A Jin wasn't faring much better. The river, the flight, the constant dread—each had stripped away her strength. Yet she held him up, jaw tight, eyes scanning the shadows as they trudged through the unbroken woods.
They needed shelter—somewhere to hide, to clean the wound, to plan their next move. And somehow, they still had to find the Blackwater Stronghold's secrets—and the mysterious figure known only as the Butcher.
"We can't go deeper," A Jin panted, stopping at last. She listened for a moment, then said quietly, "This forest's too thick. We'll lose our way—or run straight into one of the patrols."
She eased him down against a massive moss-covered tree. From this height, between gaps in the leaves, the faint silhouette of the Blackwater fortress could still be seen clinging to the mountainside.
"Rest here," she said, placing the broken half of the pole in his hand. "I'll look for a cave—or water."
Lin Yan nodded weakly. His voice had all but deserted him. He wanted to tell her to be careful, but the words wouldn't come.
When she was gone, he slumped against the trunk, fighting the darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision. So close… After everything, to die nameless in these woods? The thought clawed at him.
He tried to focus. The Mute Uncle's key, the map, the iron token—all pointed to this place. The Butcher—whoever he was—was the next link in the chain of vengeance. Lin Yan had to reach him.
A faint crack cut through the silence—a twig snapping.
Not from A Jin's direction.
Lin Yan's whole body went rigid. He gripped the half-pole tighter, holding his breath, eyes fixed on the undergrowth to his left.
The leaves stirred—and a figure stepped out.
Not a brigand. Not a killer.
A man in a rough hemp tunic, sun-darkened skin, carrying a bundle of firewood. A woodsman, maybe forty or so, plain-faced and startled at the sight of him. He took a cautious step back, squinting.
"You… who are you? What're you doing here?" The accent was thick and local, the tone wary.
Lin Yan's thoughts raced. A real woodsman—or a spy for the stronghold? He couldn't tell. He forced his voice into a hoarse, harmless tremor. "Good… good sir… We're refugees. Lost our way in the mountains. My brother's hurt bad…"
He deliberately said brother, not companion.
The man frowned, scanning the bloodstained wrappings, the half-fainted youth before him. Some suspicion faded from his eyes, though he didn't lower his guard. "Refugees? From where? You shouldn't be here. These hills—Blackwater Ridge—ain't safe for anyone."
"From the north… Sishui Town…" Lin Yan whispered. "Got chased… nowhere to go. Please, good sir—just tell us where we can rest a bit. My brother's bleeding…"
The woodsman studied him a long while. His gaze lingered on the soaked bandage and the pole clenched in Lin Yan's hand.
Then, a rustle behind—the soft crunch of feet on leaves.
A Jin returned, a leaf bundle of water in her hands. The instant she saw the stranger, she froze. Her posture shifted—guarded, ready to strike.
"Wait—" Lin Yan started, but his voice was too faint.
The woodsman's eyes darted between them. Seeing the girl's fierce gaze and quick, predatory stance, his own hand dropped to the hatchet at his waist. "You two… who exactly are you?"
The air went taut.
Lin Yan tugged at A Jin's sleeve, signaling calm, and rasped out, "We're no threat. If it troubles you, we'll go. We don't mean harm."
He pushed himself up, swaying, as if ready to leave. The sight—the blood, the trembling, the stubborn attempt to stand—seemed to melt something in the man's eyes.
He sighed. "Forget it. You look half-dead already." He jerked his chin toward the mountain ridge. "That place up there—don't even think about it. Those people are wolves. A few outsiders tried to sneak in last month. Ended with their throats cut."
"Outsiders?" Lin Yan asked sharply, despite himself. "What kind?"
The man's expression changed. He shut his mouth, shook his head. "Don't ask. You don't want to know."
He glanced at the sky, then at Lin Yan's wound. After a pause, he muttered, "Keep walking west. Two, three li from here—there's an old shrine. Abandoned. No one goes there. You might last the night."
Then he hefted his firewood and disappeared into the green.
A Jin watched the direction he'd gone, brows drawn. "Can we trust him?"
Lin Yan thought for a long moment. "If he were their lookout, he'd have called them already. He fears the stronghold. Maybe hates it. The shrine might be worth a try."
They had no better choice.
She gave him the last of the water, helped him up, and together they followed the faint animal trail westward.
Half an hour later, through tangled weeds and fallen branches, they found it: a small temple overtaken by vines. The roof sagged, the walls crumbled, the idol inside buried under dust—but it stood, and it was shelter.
A Jin settled Lin Yan in a dry corner and peeled away the old bandage. The wound had soaked through with blood again.
"This has to be cleaned," she said grimly. "Or it'll rot." The Mute Uncle's medicines were nearly gone.
She was just about to fetch the water when—
A voice rasped from outside, low and cold, like stones grinding together.
"Inside… no need to hide. Will you come out on your own—
or must we come in and invite you?"
Every muscle in Lin Yan's body locked.
That voice wasn't the woodsman's.
Boots scuffed on dirt outside—several pairs.
A Jin's hand tightened on the knife.
They'd been found.
By chance?
Or had the woodsman never truly left?
Either way, the hunters had arrived.