The man's name was Lao. He offered it only after they had eaten, as if names were a currency to be earned, not given freely. He watched, his river-stone eyes unblinking, as Li and Mei fell upon the smoked fish with a desperation that was barely human. They tried to maintain decorum, but the taste of food—real, nourishing, savory food—broke the last of their restraint. They ate until their stomachs ached, the smoky, oily richness a profound shock to systems accustomed to mud-roots and hunger.
Lao said nothing throughout the meal. He simply returned to his canoe, his adze biting into the wood with the same steady rhythm. The sound was no longer ominous, but a backdrop of normalcy, a heartbeat of a world that still held order and craft.
When they were finished, their fingers greasy and their bodies humming with a warmth they had almost forgotten, Lao gestured for them to sit by the fire pit. He poured them cups of hot, bitter tea from a small clay pot nestled in the embers. The warmth of the chipped cup in Li's hands was almost as comforting as the food.
"Now," Lao said, his gaze settling on Li. "The ghosts."
Li hesitated. The story was a tangled knot of fire, blood, and jade inside him. To speak it aloud felt like pulling the knot tighter, risking a snarl that could never be undone. He glanced at Mei. Her eyes, no longer hollow with starvation, were wide with a silent plea. Tell him.
So, he did. He started with the name. Dragon's End. He spoke of the misty mornings and the polishing stone, of his father's lessons and Mei's laughter. He painted the peaceful, simple world that was, making its destruction all the more stark when he described the dragon-helmed warriors, the fire, the screams. His voice remained flat, controlled, as he recounted their flight, the climb, the cold. But when he reached the part about the soldier on the ridge, his words faltered.
"He came for me," Li said, staring into the dregs of his tea. "I… I had no weapon. Only a piece of shale. I killed him." The words hung in the air, ugly and final.
He expected judgment. A flinch of disgust. Instead, Lao's expression did not change. He merely gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, as if Li had confirmed something he already knew.
"And the one who follows?" Lao asked. "The one whose steps you hear in your sleep?"
Li's head snapped up. How could he know?
"He is still there," Mei whispered, her voice small. "By the river. Three days ago, he almost found Li."
Lao's eyes shifted to the forest, towards the downstream path. "The Azure Cloud Clan does not give up a hunt easily. Their pride is a stubborn poison." He turned his gaze back to Li. "And the artifact? The Dragon Master would not burn a village for nothing."
Li's hand went instinctively to the pouch at his belt. He hesitated again, a lifetime of his father's warnings about secrecy warring with the desperate need for trust. This man had given them food, shelter, and had not condemned him for being a killer. Slowly, he untied the pouch and tipped the jade sphere into his palm.
In the daylight, away from the ashes and the mist, it looked different. The cloudy green interior seemed to swirl with a faint, internal light, and the unfinished surface caught the sun, revealing subtle veins of a deeper, almost black green running through it. It was no longer just a memento. In Lao's presence, it looked like what it was: something ancient and powerful.
Lao did not reach for it. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied it. He did not look surprised. He looked… resigned.
"The Heart of the Mountain," he said softly, the name a sigh. "So, the old stories are true. And the Guardians of Dragon's End are truly gone." He looked from the jade to Li's face. "You are the last."
The words landed on Li with the weight of the mountain itself. The last. It was a title, a curse, a destiny he had never asked for.
"What is it?" Mei asked, her voice full of awe.
"A key," Lao said, leaning back. "Or a lock. Or both. The legends are unclear. It is said to be a focus for the earth's own Qi, a vessel of immense power. The Azure Cloud Clan, the ones you call the Dragon Master's followers, they believe it can grant dominion over the land itself. They believe it can wake the great earth-dragon from its slumber and bend it to their will."
Li stared at the jade, feeling its cool weight. This was the reason. This unassuming stone was the worth of his parents' lives, of Old Man Fen's, of the entire village. The injustice of it was a cold fire in his veins.
"What do I do with it?" Li's voice was hard.
Lao studied him for a long time. "That is a question with two answers. The first is what you should do. You should take it far from here, to a place the Azure Cloud Clan will never find it. Hide it. Forget it. Let its power sleep."
"And the second?" Li asked, though he already knew.
"The second," Lao said, his voice dropping, "is what you will do. You will learn to use it. You will let its power wake. And you will turn it against the man who destroyed your world." He paused. "The first path offers peace, but you will carry the shame of flight forever. The second path offers vengeance, but it will demand a price you cannot yet imagine. It will change you, Li, in ways that killing a man with a piece of shale never could."
The clearing was silent, save for the crackle of the fire and the distant roar of the river. The choice was laid bare before him, not as a future possibility, but as a present, immediate crossroads.
Li closed his fingers around the jade sphere. It was no longer cool. It seemed to pulse with a faint, answering warmth against his palm. He thought of the soldier's eyes. He thought of the Dragon Master's silhouette against the flames. He thought of his father's voice. Find the center.
He looked at Lao, his own eyes now holding a glint of the same unreadable depth as the craftsman's.
"The shame of flight is already upon me," Li said, his voice low and steady. "I choose the price."
A faint, almost sad smile touched Lao's lips. "I thought you might." He gestured to the half-finished canoe. "I am a builder of vessels. I shape wood to move on water. It seems I am also to be a shaper of a different kind." He looked at Li, his gaze piercing. "The first lesson begins now. Not with the jade. With you."
He pointed to a large, moss-covered boulder at the edge of the clearing. "Sit. Do not speak. Do not think of your village, or your enemy, or the blood on your hands. Listen. To the river. To the wind in the leaves. To the wood under my tool. Find the space between the sounds. Find the silence from which they are born."
It was a strange, baffling command. But Li had learned the value of stillness. He walked to the boulder and sat, the jade sphere heavy in his lap. He closed his eyes, and for the first time since his world ended, he tried not to fight, not to run, not to hide, but simply to listen. The hunt was not abandoned. It was merely changing shape, turning inward, becoming a search for a different kind of strength.