Lin left quickly after.
There was no hesitation. No backward glance. Qingshui was already something behind him, a place reduced to memory and consequence. He followed the road east with steady steps, keeping his pace measured and his head low, moving like someone who understood that survival depended on not being noticed.
The knife was gone. He had left it where it fell.
He did not want reminders he could hold.
The road stretched long and uneven, bordered by dry grass and scattered stone markers half swallowed by dirt. Lin walked until the tension in his body became a constant ache rather than a spike of fear. When he finally slowed, it was because exhaustion demanded it, not because he felt safe.
Nothing followed him.
That fact unsettled him more than pursuit would have.
By midday, the rush that had carried him out of town bled away. Fatigue set in hard and heavy. His wrists still bore faint marks from the rope. His shoulders burned. His legs felt hollow, as if they might simply give out one step too late.
He stopped near a shallow ditch and retched, bile burning his throat. The act brought no relief. Only the reminder.
The sound she made.
The warmth on his hands.
The moment after.
Lin wiped his mouth and forced himself upright. He did not allow himself to linger. Stillness invited thought, and thought invited collapse.
He walked.
The following days passed in fragments. He avoided settlements when possible, his paranoia kicking in, skirting their edges and sleeping wherever he could without drawing attention. When he had to pass through villages, he moved with practiced anonymity, the body's instincts guiding him better than his own mind ever could.
He still had some money left.
Not much, but enough. The remnants of careful saving from his time in Qingshui, tucked away with the same quiet diligence the body had once used to delay an inevitable end. Lin spent sparingly, buying food when necessary, water when he could not avoid it. He did not starve, but he did not eat well.
He was very tired.
At night, when sleep came in broken stretches, he felt the absence most clearly.
The presence inside him remained, faint but unmistakable. A cold weight beneath his heartbeat. It did not speak. It did not stir. When Lin brushed against it with thought or intent, it remained still, withdrawn like a blade returned to its sheath.
Once, under a clouded sky, he spoke aloud.
"Are you recovering," he asked quietly.
No response.
He tried again days later, more cautiously. "You said there would be answers."
Silence.
Lin stopped asking after that.
If it was gathering strength, then it would speak when ready. If it was gone, then there was nothing to be gained by pressing into emptiness.
Jade Reach announced itself long before he reached its gates.
The road grew crowded. Traffic thickened. Wagons creaked beneath loads of goods and people alike. The air changed, carrying smoke and noise and the dense weight of too many lives pressed together.
The city rose in layers, walls stacked upon walls, towers bristling with banners and watch platforms. Beyond the inner districts sprawled the outer city, a vast maze of cramped buildings and narrow streets that swallowed sound and light with equal hunger.
No one paid Lin any attention as he entered.
That was reassuring.
Jade Reach did not care who he was, where he had come from, or what he had done. It swallowed him without comment.
He learned quickly where he belonged. Not in the central districts with their stone roads and guarded courtyards. Not near the sect compounds or merchant halls. He drifted naturally toward the slums, where buildings leaned into each other for support and alleys never truly emptied.
Here, no one asked questions as long as money changed hands.
Lin used what remained of his money to rent a small room near one of the drainage canals. It was barely more than a box, with a thin mattress, a warped table, and a door that locked only if treated gently. The walls were stained. The ceiling leaked when it rained.
It was enough.
For the first time since fleeing Qingshui, Lin allowed himself to sit still.
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and stared at his hands. They shook faintly with exhaustion. These hands had killed. Not in battle. Not with righteousness. In desperation, fear, and refusal.
His stomach twisted, but he forced it down.
"You are still alive," he murmured to himself. "That has to be enough for now."
Outside, Jade Reach continued without pause. Voices argued. Someone laughed. Somewhere nearby, something shattered and no one reacted.
That night, Lin slept deeply for the first time in weeks.
Days settled into routine with alarming speed. Lin took work when it appeared, though he did not need it immediately. Carrying water. Cleaning refuse channels. Scrubbing floors in exchange for coin or food. The work kept his body moving and his mind occupied.
He watched everything closely in case that he was hunted.
Cultivators passed through the slums more often than he expected, some careless, some alert, all dangerous. He memorized their faces, but none passed more than twice.
At night, when exhaustion dulled the edge of his thoughts, he addressed the presence again.
"I am not asking you to fight," he said quietly. "Just talk."
The cold weight remained silent.
Lin accepted it.
Far away, in Qingshui, the mayor sat behind her desk with her hands folded tightly in front of her. Papers were spread neatly across the surface, though none of them held answers she liked.
Across from her sat her daughter.
The stunning younger woman leaned back in her chair, posture relaxed, eyes sharp as she read through the report again. Her cultivation was evident even at rest. Foundation Establishment had refined her presence into something subtle but undeniable.
"Two dead enforcers," the mayor said. "Loan agents. Not town guards."
Her daughter nodded absently. "Their superiors will complain eventually."
"Yes," the mayor replied. "But Qingshui is small. We are not worth a prolonged investigation. And the loan agency they had here was pretty insignificant to them."
Her daughter paused, brow furrowing. "The manner of death is unusual."
"So I was told," the mayor said. "Witnesses were inconsistent."
The daughter tapped the page thoughtfully. "And the debtor."
"He fled," the mayor said. "No trail was discovered."
Her daughter looked up sharply. "He?"
The mayor hesitated. "Yes."
The daughter's eyes narrowed. "A man?"
"Apparently," the mayor said. "His name was Lin Yuan."
For the first time, genuine surprise crossed the younger woman's face.
"A man killed two cultivators," she said slowly.
The mayor did not answer.
Her daughter leaned forward, interest sharpened. "That is… unexpected."
She sat back again after a moment, expression smoothing into calm.
"Unlikely to matter immediately," she said. "If he survives, consequences will find him eventually. They always do."
The mayor nodded, though unease lingered.
"Lin Yuan," the daughter repeated under her breath.
Far from Qingshui, Lin lay on his narrow bed, staring at the ceiling of his rented room. Rain pattered softly above him.
Inside his chest, something cold and ancient rested in silence.
And for now, that silence was all he had.