The burned village disappeared behind her as Nalan Ziyan walked into the unknown.
She had no map, no guide, no clear destination. All she knew was that the nearest large city lay somewhere to the east, beyond the dense forest that stretched endlessly in that direction. The journey would take days, perhaps weeks. The path would be dangerous, filled with wild beasts and unknown threats.
But she had no choice. Staying near the ruins of her home was impossible. Whoever had destroyed the village might return. And even if they didn't, there was nothing left for her there—no food, no shelter, no reason to remain.
So she walked.
The forest swallowed her within the first hour. The trees grew thick and tall here, their branches interweaving overhead to block out most of the sunlight. The undergrowth was dense with ferns and bushes that grabbed at her clothes as she pushed through. Animal sounds filled the air—birds calling, insects chirping, and occasionally something larger moving through the brush nearby.
Ziyan wasn't afraid. Not of the forest, at least. Her cultivation had given her senses sharp enough to detect any approaching danger, and her newfound strength was more than enough to handle ordinary beasts. She had already killed a spirit snake. What were a few wolves or boars compared to that?
But as the days passed, she began to think more carefully about her situation.
The scroll. The Blood Demon Scripture. It was still tucked against her body, hidden under her clothes. Every time she moved, she could feel its cold weight pressing against her skin. It was a constant reminder of the power she had gained—and the danger that power represented.
On the third night of her journey, as she sat by a small fire eating roasted squirrel, the realization hit her fully.
The scroll was a liability.
Anyone stronger than her who sensed its dark energy would want it for themselves. The Blood Demon Scripture was clearly not an ordinary cultivation technique—it was something rare, something valuable, something that people would kill for. The dead man in the river had probably died because of it. Her village might have been destroyed because of it.
And she was carrying it openly, like a fool.
If a powerful cultivator crossed her path and recognized what she had, they wouldn't hesitate. They would kill her instantly and take the scroll. She was still too weak to protect it, too weak to protect herself against anyone with real power.
But there was another consideration. The technique itself was already imprinted in her mind. Every word, every diagram, every instruction—it had all been burned into her memory on that first night, when the red light from the necklace had struck her forehead. She didn't need the physical scroll anymore. The knowledge would stay with her forever.
The scroll was just a redundancy now. A dangerous redundancy.
She made her decision the next morning.
It took her several hours to find the right spot—a distinctive location that she could find again someday. Eventually, she discovered a massive boulder, easily fifty feet tall, covered with unusual patches of orange moss. At its base, where the rock met the earth, there was a small hollow hidden behind a curtain of hanging vines.
She dug there with her bare hands, carving out a hole deep enough to bury the scroll properly. She wrapped it in leaves, then in strips torn from her already ragged clothes, creating layers of protection against moisture and decay. Finally, she placed it in the hole and covered it with earth, then stones, then more earth.
When she was done, she stood back and memorized every detail of the location. The shape of the boulder. The pattern of the moss. The angle of the nearby trees. The way the morning light fell across the clearing.
"I'll come back for you," she said silently, addressing the buried scroll as if it could hear her. "When I'm strong enough to protect myself. When I can fight anyone who tries to take you from me. I'll return."
The necklace, however, she kept.
She had considered burying it along with the scroll, but something stopped her. Partly it was the beauty of the thing—the red stone still captivated her, even now. Partly it was the warmth she felt when she touched it, a comfort in the cold loneliness of her journey.
But mostly, it was instinct. Something deep inside her said that the necklace was important. That it was doing something for her, even if she didn't understand what.
She was right, though she didn't know it.
The red stone had a power she hadn't discovered yet. It was absorbing the dark aura that her cultivation produced—the smell of blood, the killing intent, the demonic energy that leaked from her body with every breath. The necklace was drinking it all in, hiding her true nature from the world.
To anyone who looked at her, even cultivators far more powerful than herself, she appeared to be nothing more than an ordinary mortal girl. No spiritual energy. No cultivation base. No threat whatsoever.
This camouflage would save her life more than once in the days to come.
The journey through the forest continued.
Every day, Ziyan walked from dawn until dark, covering as much ground as she could. Every night, she hunted. The forest was full of game—rabbits, deer, wild pigs, and countless smaller creatures. She killed them without mercy, using their blood to fuel her cultivation and their flesh to fill her stomach.
The Blood Demon Scripture responded eagerly to each sacrifice. The dark energy in animal blood was thin compared to what she could gain from spirit beasts or humans, but quantity had a quality of its own. Night after night, she absorbed the life force of her prey, feeling her power grow steadily stronger.
By the end of the second week, she had broken through to the next level.
Qi Accumulation First Realm, Mid Stage.
It wasn't a dramatic advancement—just one small step on a very long staircase—but she could feel the difference immediately. Her body was stronger, faster, more resilient. Her senses were sharper. The core of energy in her dantian had grown denser and more stable.
Her physical appearance had changed as well, in ways that continued to surprise her. The malnutrition and hardship of her previous life were being erased, replaced by something new. Her skin had become smooth and pale, almost luminous in the moonlight. Her hair had grown thicker and longer, falling past her shoulders in waves of black silk. Her body had filled out, gaining curves and definition that she had never possessed before.
She looked like a different person. She looked beautiful.
But she was careful to hide it. Every morning, she smeared dirt and ash on her face. She kept her hair tangled and unkempt. She wore her clothes loose and ragged, disguising the shape of her body underneath. In a world where a pretty woman traveling alone was a target, ugliness was a form of protection.
On the fifteenth day of her journey, she stopped to rest beside a small stream.
The water was clear and cold, bubbling over smooth stones as it made its way through the forest. Ziyan had been walking since before dawn, and her legs ached despite her enhanced endurance. She needed food and rest before continuing.
She caught a rabbit within minutes—they were easy prey for someone with her speed and senses. She killed it quickly with a twist of its neck, then set about preparing a fire.
This part had become easier too. Before, she would have needed flint and steel, or the tedious process of rubbing sticks together. Now, she simply gathered dry leaves and twigs, then focused a tiny amount of Qi into her fingertips. When she touched the kindling, sparks jumped from her fingers to the dry material, and flames caught immediately.
She skinned and cleaned the rabbit with practiced efficiency, then set it over the fire to roast. The smell of cooking meat filled the air—rich and savory, making her mouth water. She hadn't eaten since the previous night, and her stomach growled with anticipation.
As she waited for the meat to cook, she allowed herself a rare moment of satisfaction. Two weeks ago, she had been a starving orphan, fleeing the ruins of her village with nothing but the clothes on her back. Now, she was a cultivator with real power. She could hunt, fight, and survive in the wilderness without depending on anyone.
She was strong. Stronger than she had ever been.
Maybe strong enough to start thinking about revenge.
That thought was still forming in her mind when she heard the sound.
Leaves rustling. Branches creaking. Footsteps—multiple sets of them—approaching from several directions at once.
Ziyan was on her feet instantly, her hand reaching for the sharp stone she had been using as a knife. Her eyes scanned the tree line, searching for the source of the sounds.
They came out of nowhere.
Four men dropped from the branches above, landing in a circle around her with practiced precision. They moved faster than any normal human could, their bodies blurring through the air like arrows. Before she could react, they had already surrounded her, cutting off every avenue of escape.
Ziyan's heart sank as she assessed her attackers.
They were cultivators. She could sense the energy radiating from their bodies, far denser and more powerful than her own. Their clothes were mismatched and travel-worn, but they wore them with the casual confidence of men who feared nothing in the forest. Weapons hung from their belts—swords, knives, and other implements of violence.
Bandits. Cultivator bandits.
The leader was a large man with a scarred face and cold eyes. He looked Ziyan up and down, his expression shifting from predatory interest to mild disappointment as he took in her dirt-smeared face and shapeless clothes.
"Well, well," he said, his voice rough and mocking. "What do we have here? A little girl cooking lunch in the middle of nowhere?"
Ziyan didn't respond. Her mind was racing, calculating distances and angles, trying to find a way out. She could sense their cultivation levels now—all four of them were at the third realm of Qi Accumulation. Two full stages above her. And there were four of them.
The numbers were impossible.
"Nothing to say?" The leader laughed and took a step closer. "That's fine. We're not here to chat anyway. Hand over anything valuable you're carrying, and maybe we'll let you go with just a few bruises."
Ziyan's eyes darted to the gaps between the men, measuring the distance to the nearest trees. If she could just get past them, get into the forest where she could use the terrain—
The leader saw her looking and laughed again. "Don't even think about running, girl. You won't make it three steps."
She ran anyway.
She exploded into motion, pushing every ounce of Qi into her legs as she launched herself toward the smallest gap in their formation. For a fraction of a second, she thought she might make it.
Then one of the bandits appeared in front of her, materializing out of thin air to block her path.
She swung at him with the stone knife, putting all her strength behind the blow. It was the same kind of strike that had killed the spirit snake, the same attack that had shattered tree branches like twigs.
He caught her wrist like he was grabbing a child's hand.
"Stupid girl," he said, and twisted.
Pain shot up her arm as her shoulder nearly dislocated. The stone knife fell from her fingers. Before she could recover, a massive impact struck her stomach—a kick from one of the other bandits—and she was flying backward through the air.
She hit a tree trunk with a sickening crunch. Blood filled her mouth. The world spun around her.
She tried to get up, tried to fight, tried to do anything. But they were on her before she could move. Fists and feet rained down from all directions, driving the breath from her lungs, cracking her ribs, splitting the skin on her face.
When they finally stopped, she lay curled on the ground, barely conscious. Blood dripped from her nose and lips. Every breath sent waves of agony through her battered body.
The leader crouched down beside her, grabbing her hair and pulling her head up so she had to look at him.
"I told you not to run," he said, almost conversationally. "You should have listened."
He searched her quickly, professionally, looking for valuables. His hands found the necklace under her shirt, and for one terrible moment, Ziyan thought he would take it.
But he barely glanced at it before letting it drop back against her chest. To his eyes, it was just a piece of cheap jewelry—red glass on a brass chain, not worth the effort of removing.
"Nothing valuable," he announced to the others. "Just a poor peasant girl, probably ran away from some village."
"What do we do with her?" one of the other bandits asked.
The leader looked Ziyan over again. Despite the dirt and blood covering her face, he could see that she was young and relatively healthy. She had survived a serious beating without losing consciousness, which suggested good stamina.
"She's not pretty enough to sell to a brothel," he said thoughtfully. "But she looks strong enough for labor. We'll add her to the stock. She should fetch a decent price at the next market."
They bound her hands behind her back and stuffed a rag in her mouth to keep her from screaming. Then they half-dragged, half-carried her through the forest, following a path that she hadn't known existed.
They arrived at a small clearing where more bandits were waiting. And with them, huddled together like animals, were other prisoners.
Ziyan counted about fifteen people—men and women, young and old, all of them bound and gagged like herself. Their clothes were torn and filthy. Their eyes were empty, devoid of hope. Heavy ropes connected them to each other, forming a human chain that could be led from place to place like a line of pack mules.
Slaves. They were all slaves.
And now she was one of them.
The bandits pushed her into the line and tied a rope around her neck, connecting her to the prisoner in front of her. She felt the rough hemp dig into her skin, felt her freedom disappear with each knot they tied.
Just an hour ago, she had been congratulating herself on how strong she had become. She had been thinking about revenge, about hunting down the people who destroyed her village, about making them pay for what they had done.
Now she couldn't even raise her hands.
The bandits finished their preparations and began to move. They walked ahead, talking and laughing among themselves, while the line of slaves stumbled along behind them. The pace was relentless—anyone who fell was beaten until they got up again.
Ziyan walked with her head down, her eyes fixed on the ground in front of her feet. Her body ached from the beating. Her pride burned with humiliation.
She had been so arrogant. So foolish. She had thought that a few weeks of cultivation made her powerful, made her capable of facing anything.
But this world was bigger than she had imagined. There were people everywhere who were stronger than her—bandits hiding in forests, cultivators walking the roads, powers beyond anything she could currently comprehend. Her little bit of strength was nothing compared to what was out there.
She was still at the bottom of the food chain. She was still prey.
But even as despair threatened to overwhelm her, another feeling rose up from deep inside. It was cold and dark and absolutely relentless.
Anger.
Not the hot, explosive rage that made people do stupid things. This was different. This was a cold flame, burning steadily in her core, feeding on her humiliation and pain.
She had been weak today. She had been captured, beaten, enslaved. She had been forced to face the truth of her own insignificance.
But this was not the end of her story. This was a lesson. A brutal, painful lesson about the realities of power in this world.
And she was going to learn from it.
The rope bit into her neck as she walked. The chains clinked with each step. The other slaves shuffled along in defeated silence, accepting their fate.
Ziyan accepted nothing. In her heart, the dark fire continued to burn.