Shadowwwing
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85. A Different Kind of Beast
🕑 Added 2025-08-14 22:00:05 +0000 UTCThe forest was quiet but for the steady crunch of boots on frost-bitten leaves.
Jiang moved easily, slipping between trees with the same unthinking grace he’d once used on the rooftops of Qinghe. It had been only a few weeks since he’d last walked the wilds, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Then, he’d been running on stubbornness and desperation. Now, at the fifth stage of Qi Condensation, with his reinforcement technique honed into something far more efficient, the miles passed underfoot almost without effort.
The Broker’s packet had contained half a dozen names and twice as many dead ends. It was encouragingly thorough, which should have made him happy but only reminded him of the Broker’s deliberate manipulation of information earlier. Irritatingly, it called into question the veracity of this information, but as there wasn’t anything he could do about it, Jiang put the thought out of his mind.
He’d picked the Crimson Blades for the simple reason that they were close and – supposedly – smaller than the others. Smaller didn’t mean harmless, but it did mean fewer bodies between him and the answers he wanted.
They were said to operate somewhere between a small market town and two villages, far enough from either to keep the watch disinterested, but close enough to feed on trade and travellers. The town would have had more information, probably better leads – but Jiang had had his fill of walls and markets and voices. Villages suited him better. Less noise. Fewer eyes.
The one he’d chosen was meant to be three days’ hard travel from Qinghe. By his reckoning, he’d covered more than half the distance before the sun dipped behind the trees. Considering he hadn’t set out until after noon, his pace was downright inhuman. The new rhythm of his body – strengthened tendons, the easy coil of reinforced muscle – made the miles light beneath him.
Honestly, he felt energetic enough to travel through the night – except that even for a cultivator, that was something best left to emergencies. It would be bitterly ironic if he twisted an ankle in the darkness and slowed himself down while trying to save time.
He slowed near a small clearing and let his pack slip from his shoulder. Some loose wood lay scattered under the pines, sheltered enough from the recent snowfall that it wasn’t completely soaked, and soon a fire was coaxed to life, the smoke curling thin into the cold air.
It had been days since he’d last cultivated properly, and the quiet pressed at him now, an invitation. He sat cross-legged before the fire, shutting his eyes, letting his breathing settle into the familiar cadence.
Qi answered him like a long-lost friend.
The Pact’s presence thrummed under his skin, weaving a connection to the world’s energy that was… different. Deeper. The air itself felt alive, threads of power drawing toward him as though recognising something in his core. He’d thought his last breakthrough would leave him plateaued for weeks – months, maybe – but the flow was steady, natural, as though the next stage waited just ahead.
Hours slipped away without notice. When he opened his eyes again, the fire was little more than coals, and his limbs hummed with quiet power. He could feel the boundary to the sixth stage – not quite close enough to touch, but shockingly close considering how recently he’d broken through to the fifth stage.
Jiang leaned back on his hands, staring into the dark beyond the firelight. The speed of it was intoxicating. In the Sects, this kind of progress would have been impossible without rare resources or dangerous risks. Here, it came to him as easily as breathing.
He could see why they’d gone to war over it.
That thought lodged in his mind like a thorn. Finding his family had always been the goal, but what then? Bringing them back to the life they’d lost would be dangerous enough – but now, with the Pact pulling him further along this path every day, he’d be dragging them into something far worse.
The Crimson Blades were just another step forward. But each step seemed to take him further from the man who had left home in the first place.
He fed another branch into the fire and forced his thoughts still. The road was waiting, and he would walk it as far as it went. What came after… he would deal with when it arrived.
— — —
The village was a quiet, huddled thing, its timber walls weathered grey by wind and time. Jiang couldn’t help but compare it to Liǔxī and find it lacking. Despite the roughly comparable population, Liǔxī’s buildings had been much nicer, not to mention the people had been a lot more energetic. Not that it had done them much good in the end.
He walked through the open gate without slowing his pace, the supposedly two-day journey from his last camp having done little more than stretch his legs. He drew a few wary glances from the handful of villagers in the street – a woman carrying a bucket of water, two old men huddled on a bench – but no one spoke. It struck him as a little odd; most small villages were somewhat starved for entertainment, and visitors were usually the most interesting thing to happen.
He found the tavern easily enough. Bars, inns, and taverns were usually gathering places for travellers and bored villagers alike, and thus were often the best places to get the sort of information he wanted. Jiang wasn’t expecting too much from this, but if nothing else, the people living here would know the area better than he ever could, and would likely be able to point him towards the sorts of places a bandit group would be most likely to settle in.
It was a squat, smoky building with a crudely painted sign of a boar’s head hanging crookedly from one hinge. Pushing the heavy door open, he stepped into a room thick with the smell of stale ale and woodsmoke. A few patrons sat hunched over their cups at scattered tables, their conversations low and sporadic.
His entrance barely even merited a glance, and the general mood seemed to be just shy of grim. Jiang ignored it – there were plenty of reasons people might be in a bad mood, from a recent death to a poor harvest – and moved towards the bar where a man was wiping down the timber surface with a damp rag.
The tavernkeeper looked up, his expression guarded as he took in Jiang’s traveller’s gear and the sword at his hip.
“Looking for a room?” the man asked, his voice a low grumble.
“Information,” Jiang said, cutting straight to the point. “I’m looking for a group called the Crimson Blades. Heard they operate around here.”
The tavernkeeper’s hand froze mid-swipe. He shot a nervous glance around the room, but no one was paying them any attention. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You don’t want to be asking that name in here, boy. You don’t want to be asking it anywhere.”
Jiang frowned, confused by the man’s instant fear. He’d expected caution, maybe even suspicion, but this was something else. “I’m not looking for trouble. I just need to find them.”
“That’s what trouble is,” the man hissed, his knuckles white on the rag. “Look, whoever you are, whatever business you think you have with them, it’s not worth it. They’re not just bandits, they’re ghosts. They come and go as they please, and anyone who gets in their way… they end up ghosts, too. Just turn around, walk out that door, and forget you ever heard the name.”
Well. If nothing else, that confirmed they were active in the area – that was a reaction borne from bitter experience. Before he could reply, however, a cold, sharp pressure pressed against his throat. He went still, his senses, which had been focused on the tavernkeeper, registering the sudden presence behind him a fraction of a second too late.
“Now, now, don’t be like that,” a voice purred in his ear, laced with a smug amusement. The tip of the blade bit just enough to draw a pinprick of blood. “The man’s just looking for us, after all.”
The figure behind him leaned closer, the smell of cheap wine and unwashed leather sharp in the air. “I’m with the Crimson Blades,” the man chuckled mockingly. “Heard you were asking about us. Something I can help you with?”
To Jiang’s surprise, it was anticipation more than fear that rushed through him at the threat. It seemed he had been wrong – this was going to be much easier than he expected.
“Yes, actually,” he said, voice a low, steady thrum of satisfaction. “You can.”
— — —
Joric focused on keeping very still and not making any noise.
And to think he’d thought things couldn’t get any worse than having a member of the Crimson Blade drinking in his establishment. No, that same Crimson Blade was crumpled against the far wall in a ruin of splintered chairs and his own misery.
He watched the boy. One moment, he’d been a stupid scrawny traveller with a knife to his throat; the next, the shadows in the room had seemed to deepen, twisting at the edges as if pulled by an unseen tide, and the bandit had been sent flying. A cultivator. Gods, a real, heavens-damned cultivator, and Joric had nearly tried to shoo him out the door. His throat felt as dry as a summer riverbed.
He hadn’t heard any of the questions the cultivator asked the bandit. He was willing to bet everyone else in the room had also come down with the same sudden case of deafness.
The boy—no. The cultivator didn’t even glance at his handiwork once he’d finished with his business. Joric tried not to flinch as the shadows resumed their rightful places. He just walked over to the bar and stopped in front of the counter, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Joric forced himself not to flinch.
A silver coin spun through the air, landing on the bar with a sharp, beautiful clink.
“For the damage,” the cultivator said, his voice flat and steady.
Joric blinked down at it.
His eyes, which had been fixed on the terrifying stillness of the boy’s face, dropped to the coin. It was real, heavy silver, worth more than the two tables and three chairs he’d just destroyed. Probably worth more than Joric made in a week. That was enough to pay for the damage twice over, maybe three times if he patched the tables himself.
Cultivators. They were like storms or floods – immortal forces of nature you didn’t reason with, you just prayed you weren’t in their path when they rolled through. They could be great or terrible; there were stories of cultivators burning entire villages for even associating with bandits – as if being raided was associating. But then there were stories where a cultivator uplifted a city on a whim, throwing around enough wealth to pave the streets with jade.
Joric looked from the silver back to the boy, then to the bandit who was now trying, and failing, to push himself up. The other patrons were statues, their faces pale, terrified of drawing the cultivator’s attention.
He’d never been a greedy man. The silver was plenty.
“T—Thank you, honoured cultivator,” he managed to stammer out.
The cultivator gave a polite nod, then turned and pushed open the door. Cold light spilled in before the wood swung shut again, the sound of his footsteps fading into the street.
Joric let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. His eyes went to the bandit, who was still curled on the floor, muttering curses between pained groans. Already, some of his regular patrons were regaining some of their courage, moving to surround the suddenly less threatening man.
Poor bastard.
He shook his head at himself. No – there was nothing “poor” about a Crimson Blade. If anyone deserved to have a cultivator come for them – especially one who could pull the shadows out of the corners and make them whisper – it was bandits.
Joric turned back to his work, pretending he couldn’t hear the men of the village taking out some of their frustrations. It seemed the Crimson Blades weren’t long for this world.
He’d drink to that tonight.
