Chapter 5: The Price of Staying Alive
The wind swept between the rocky formations, carrying reddish dust through the cracks in the earth.
Outside Three Stones Station, the world appeared quiet. Han Feng knew better than to mistake silence for peace.
In the ten years since the two universes had collided and begun their brief convergence, the meaning of danger had changed. In the past, a cultivator needed to fear ferocious beasts, stronger enemies, ancient traps, and heavenly tribulations. Now, there was another threat to consider: places where the laws of the world no longer agreed with one another.
A hillside might contain abundant spiritual energy in the morning, only to become a barren wasteland by dusk. An area that permitted the normal circulation of primordial essence might react violently to the activation of a Gu, unleashing a surge powerful enough to destroy its owner's meridians. There were reports of cultivators whose techniques had behaved in completely unexpected ways during a single meditation, as though the laws supporting their cultivation methods had been replaced by something foreign.
Some had survived.
Many had died without ever discovering what had happened to them.
Han Feng knew these stories. He also knew the difference between an exaggerated rumor and a genuine threat.
That was why he had no intention of remaining in his rocky shelter for long.
He sat on a flat stone throughout the night, maintaining a slow, steady breathing rhythm. The Art of the Celestial Veil enveloped his body like an invisible layer, suppressing the fluctuations of his aura until his presence blended with the scattered energy of the surrounding environment.
At the same time, his spiritual perception examined the area at irregular intervals.
He wasn't trying to detect everything.
Trying to observe everything was an excellent way to waste concentration—and, in certain places, attract the attention of things that should never have noticed one's existence.
The stone tablet rested before him.
The four characters engraved upon its surface remained unchanged:
Vestige of Origin.
During the preceding hours, Han Feng had examined the tablet under several different conditions. First, he had studied its surface with his spiritual perception. Next, he had brought small quantities of primordial essence close to it without allowing them to touch the inscription directly. Finally, he had used a fragment of ambient spiritual energy while keeping his own essence completely withdrawn.
None of the experiments had produced a clear reaction.
The tablet had absorbed no energy, emitted no light, and revealed no hidden mechanism. Its temperature had remained stable even when the night air grew cold enough to leave a thin film of moisture on the surrounding stones.
Nevertheless, Han Feng refused to consider it an ordinary object.
During his final experiment, the light of a distant star had passed through a gap between the rocks and fallen directly upon the inscription. At that instant, one of the four characters had appeared to lose its depth, as though the carving no longer belonged to the surface of the stone.
For a brief moment, it had looked like the shadow of something situated much farther away.
The phenomenon had lasted less than a breath.
Han Feng hadn't attempted to reproduce it.
He wasn't afraid of discovering more. He simply lacked the information necessary to judge the consequences.
The tablet might be a key, a record, a marker, or merely a fragment of some ancient structure. Any conclusion beyond that would be a story invented by his own curiosity.
And curiosity was a poor substitute for evidence.
He placed the tablet inside an insulated pouch, wrapped it in two layers of special fabric, and concealed it within a hidden compartment in his clothing.
Only then did he turn his attention inward.
The Celestial Diagram remained silent within his consciousness.
Its lines appeared as stable as ever, forming a structure he understood better than many of the ancient texts he had encountered over the years. Yet, since the Convergence, that apparent stability had begun to trouble him.
It didn't feel like the stillness of something dormant.
It felt like the stillness of a creature that had learned to hide its breathing.
Han Feng closed his eyes and observed it for several moments.
Nothing happened.
He ended his meditation.
"If something wants me to find an answer, it can wait."
There was no need to turn every anomaly into a mission. Survival often depended on the ability to abandon a question before it became a death sentence.
At dawn, Han Feng left the shelter.
He chose a route away from the main road, crossing a region of low hills where vegetation had grown irregularly since the Convergence. Some trees possessed dark green leaves, while others had gray branches and bark resembling corroded metal. Between their roots, tiny luminous particles appeared and vanished, remnants of an energy circulation that no longer obeyed the world's familiar natural laws.
Han Feng didn't touch any of them.
Instead, he continued on foot, avoiding movement techniques that might leave obvious traces.
His destination was Graystone Hamlet, a small trading settlement two days from Three Stones Station. According to the information he had gathered, the hamlet had survived the worsening shortages through agreements with caravans and independent cultivators.
It wasn't wealthy.
It wasn't safe.
But it possessed one important advantage: too many people passed through its streets for an unfamiliar traveler to attract immediate attention.
Han Feng needed three things.
Food. Information. And a route out of the region.
The investigation into the black door could wait.
For now.
The first sign that his journey would not be peaceful appeared shortly before noon.
Han Feng was crossing a narrow valley when he heard metal striking stone. The noise came from around a bend, followed by shouts and the muffled roar of a beast.
He stopped behind a rocky outcrop.
At first glance, the situation appeared straightforward. A small caravan had been cornered near a hillside. Two transport wagons lay overturned, and three pack animals were motionless in the dust. Open crates littered the ground, spilling sacks of grain, tools, and several containers used to store spiritual materials.
Six men surrounded the survivors.
They wore no recognizable sect uniforms, but their equipment was far from makeshift. Each carried a weapon reinforced with energy inscriptions. Two bore circular markings on their wrists, resembling those used by cultivators who had integrated techniques from both cultivation systems.
The markings were unstable. Reddish lines alternated with blue streaks, pulsing at different rhythms beneath the skin.
At the center of the group, a broad-shouldered man held a short sword in front of a kneeling merchant.
"The agreement was simple," he said. "You cross the valley, pay the passage fee, and continue on your way alive. But you concealed part of your cargo."
The merchant's face was covered in dust and blood.
"We paid yesterday. Three spirit stones and two storage Gu. We have nothing else."
"Then why did your manifest list seven containers of stabilized essence when you presented only four?"
"The other three were destroyed during our passage through a convergence zone! I showed you the records!"
The broad-shouldered man smiled.
"Records can be falsified."
He struck the merchant with the hilt of his sword.
A woman hiding behind the overturned wagon suddenly tried to run. One of the bandits caught her before she had taken five steps and knocked her to the ground. She curled around a small package, protecting it with her body.
"No!" a wounded young man shouted. "She has nothing to do with this!"
The bandit raised his weapon.
Han Feng watched in silence.
His initial assessment took only a few moments.
The broad-shouldered leader appeared to be at Rank 3 on the Gu cultivation path, although the instability of his aura made an accurate assessment difficult. The others ranged from low to middle cultivation levels.
None possessed enough strength to pose a serious threat to Han Feng.
That did not make intervention a wise decision.
He didn't know the survivors. He had no idea whether the caravan was transporting illegal goods, whether the bandits belonged to a larger organization, or whether the ambush was part of a dispute extending across the entire region.
Killing six bandits might resolve the immediate problem and create three larger ones before nightfall.
Besides, the woman was still alive.
The bandit hesitated when he noticed the wounded young man struggling to stand. Irritated, he kicked the boy back to the ground and raised his weapon again.
The sound that followed wasn't a scream.
It was the sharp clink of a small stone striking metal.
The weapon's blade shifted several inches, causing the blow to miss its target and strike the ground.
Every head turned.
Han Feng stood at the entrance to the valley, his hands hidden inside the sleeves of his dark robes. His expression was indifferent, and the aura surrounding him suggested an ordinary cultivator who had barely consolidated his foundation.
The broad-shouldered leader narrowed his eyes.
"Who are you?"
"A traveler."
"Then keep traveling."
Han Feng glanced at the woman on the ground, then at the merchant kneeling in the dust.
"I'm trying."
Two of the bandits laughed.
Their leader didn't join them. He studied Han Feng for several moments, assessing his plain clothing, the absence of visible weapons, and the apparent weakness of his presence.
"This valley belongs to the Gray Claw Gang," he declared. "Everyone who passes through pays. Anyone who interferes in our business pays more."
Han Feng tilted his head slightly.
"I didn't realize the valley had an owner."
"Now you know."
"In that case, I'll find another route."
He took a step backward.
The leader appeared satisfied. This wasn't the first time a traveler had chosen personal survival over the lives of strangers. In the current world, indifference had become so common that many no longer considered it cowardice.
They called it prudence.
Han Feng turned away.
Behind him, he heard the woman begin to cry. A moment later came the sound of another blow, followed by the wounded young man's groan.
He continued walking.
One step.
Two.
Three.
On the fourth, he stopped.
It wasn't a sudden surge of compassion. Nor did he believe saving these people would change the world.
What bothered him was how easily the leader had invented a passage fee, using scarcity as justification to take whatever he wanted.
If Han Feng ignored such behavior on the road, there was little reason to expect other groups to behave differently. Before long, every trade route would carry a price imposed by whoever possessed the strongest fists, and even a simple journey would become a succession of ambushes.
He had no intention of saving the world.
But he needed to keep living in it.
"Release the woman," Han Feng said without turning around. "Keep the remaining cargo and let the caravan leave."
The valley fell silent for a moment.
Then the leader burst out laughing.
"You came back to negotiate? How generous. Very well. Leave everything you carry, kneel down, and perhaps I'll allow you to accompany those worms."
Han Feng sighed.
It was always the same.
Some people mistook silence for weakness because they had never encountered someone capable of remaining quiet without feeling afraid.
He turned around.
"I refused the first choice you gave me. Don't force me to refuse a second time."
The leader's smile disappeared.
"Kill him."
Two men charged simultaneously.
The first activated an acceleration Gu. His figure blurred into a reddish streak, and his sword slashed toward Han Feng's neck. The second circled to the left, concentrating essence in his palm to unleash an impact technique.
Han Feng didn't draw a weapon.
He merely shifted his right foot.
The sword passed within a finger's width of his shoulder. Before the attacker could correct his trajectory, Han Feng lightly touched his elbow. The movement was almost casual, but the force accumulated in the man's arm turned against him. His sword slipped free and embedded itself in the ground as he stumbled forward.
The second attacker arrived at the same moment.
Han Feng pivoted, using the first man's shoulder as leverage. The palm strike intended for his ribs met empty air. Its momentum carried the attacker past his target, leaving him off balance.
Han Feng touched two points on the man's chest with his fingertips.
The cultivator's essence circulation collapsed for a brief moment.
He dropped to his knees, unable to gather enough energy to sustain his technique.
The entire exchange had lasted fewer than three breaths.
The Gray Claw leader stopped smiling.
He finally understood that the traveler's weak aura did not match his movements. Even so, rather than retreat, he decided to rely on superior numbers.
The markings on his wrists lit up.
Unstable energy surged through his arms. The yellowish primordial essence of his cultivation mixed with a blue current of spiritual energy, forming an irregular layer over his sword.
Han Feng felt a slight resistance in the surrounding environment.
The technique was a crude combination of the two cultivation systems. It lacked refinement, but it wasn't entirely useless. Spiritual energy extended the attack's reach, while primordial essence maintained the structure of the technique.
The problem was the lack of harmony between them.
With every pulse, the blade produced tiny fluctuations that threatened to destabilize its own wielder.
The leader charged.
His sword descended, dragging an arc of blue-and-yellow light through the air.
Han Feng raised two fingers.
For an instant, the space between them seemed to lose its depth.
There was no explosion.
No flash of light.
The blade simply slowed, as though it had entered an invisible layer of water. The combined energy warped. Its two currents separated, and the strike lost its force before reaching Han Feng.
The leader's eyes widened.
Han Feng tapped the side of the sword with two fingers.
The metal snapped.
The upper half spun through the air and fell into the dust.
"How...?"
Han Feng didn't answer.
The leader tried to retreat, but he was already too late. Han Feng appeared before him in a single movement and struck his chest with an open palm.
The force penetrated his body without leaving an obvious external wound.
The man flew backward, struck the hillside, and collapsed on his side, coughing blood.
The remaining three bandits hesitated.
One immediately dropped his weapon. Another tried to flee through a narrow passage between the rocks but stopped when Han Feng glanced in his direction. The third, driven perhaps by desperation or pride, activated a defensive technique and charged with a shout.
Han Feng sidestepped the attack, seized the man's wrist, and twisted until his weapon fell. A light strike to the back of the neck ended his resistance.
The final attacker ran.
Han Feng let him go.
There was no need to pursue an unarmed man who had already abandoned the fight. The message would spread with or without further violence: the Gray Claw Gang had encountered someone it couldn't intimidate.
The battle ended so quickly that the survivors needed several moments to understand what had happened.
Han Feng walked over to the wounded leader. The man tried to raise his head, but a sharp pain in his chest forced him to stop.
"Who sent you?" Han Feng asked.
"No one... We just collect passage fees..."
Han Feng glanced at the broken sword.
"Your technique wasn't developed by someone who merely collects fees. Who taught you to combine those energies?"
The man clenched his teeth.
For a moment, Han Feng thought he would lie. Then he noticed the leader wasn't looking at him. He was staring at the markings on his own wrists.
The blue energy continued to fluctuate beneath his skin, even though the technique had been interrupted.
"I bought a method," the man finally answered. "From someone who appeared in this region a few months ago. He said the old systems were changing, and anyone who learned to combine them would gain an advantage over everyone else."
"His name?"
"I don't know. People called him the Ashen Master."
Han Feng committed the name to memory.
"How many people received the method?"
"I don't know. Dozens, maybe. He sold copies in different settlements."
"And what happened to the buyers?"
The leader hesitated.
"Some became stronger. Others fell ill. One of my men lost control of his essence and died three days later. The Ashen Master said it was a matter of aptitude."
Han Feng studied the circular markings on the man's wrists.
The revelation wasn't particularly surprising. Since the Convergence, countless cultivators had tried to force compatibility between the two systems. Most lacked the knowledge to understand that two energies capable of coexisting in the same world weren't necessarily capable of circulating through the same body.
A technique might function for several hours and destroy its user's meridians the following day.
The true danger wasn't the existence of hybrid methods.
It was how easily desperate people accepted any promise of power.
"Where can I find this man?"
"Dry Well City, perhaps. I heard he follows caravans that cross the convergence zones."
Han Feng remained silent for several seconds.
Dry Well City lay in a different direction from the route he had planned to take. That alone wasn't a sufficient reason to change course.
However, the sale of unstable techniques might explain some of the recent conflicts. If the method had been developed using an unusual material, it might also provide useful information about how energy behaved after the Convergence.
Perhaps.
Han Feng didn't confuse a possibility with an obligation.
"Leave this valley," he said, stepping away from the leader. "If you attack travelers again, there won't be a second conversation."
The man didn't respond. His face had gone pale, and his breathing came in short, uneven bursts. The bandits still capable of moving began helping him, none daring to meet Han Feng's eyes.
Before leaving, Han Feng picked up the broken sword and examined the fragment lying near his feet. The inscriptions on the metal were crude, but several lines appeared to have been added after the weapon's manufacture.
He memorized them and left the fragment where it was.
He didn't need to collect physical evidence of everything he encountered.
The caravan merchant tried to thank him with a bow so deep that he nearly fell to his knees again.
"Sir, you saved our lives. Please allow us to reward you."
Han Feng glanced at the damaged wagons.
"Repair what you can and continue to Graystone Hamlet. Avoid the main road after dark."
"We can offer spirit stones, materials, or—"
"I need information. What do you know about the Ashen Master?"
The merchant exchanged glances with the other survivors.
The woman who had been knocked down was still clutching her package. The wounded young man was being supported by a companion, and his breathing remained uneven.
"I've heard that name in two settlements," the merchant replied. "They say he sells techniques that let people use spiritual energy and primordial essence at the same time. Some believe he works for a sect. Others say he's a deserter from a major organization."
"And what do you believe?"
"I believe people are desperate."
The merchant looked toward the overturned wagons.
"Before the Convergence, a family could survive with a small piece of farmland or by trading between cities. Now, the fields produce less, the mines are exhausted more quickly, and safe routes change from one month to the next. When someone appears promising an advantage, many would rather risk their lives than keep waiting."
Han Feng didn't answer immediately.
Scarcity wasn't merely the absence of resources. It was a force that compelled people to reveal what they truly valued.
Some shared what little they had.
Others turned another person's hunger into an opportunity.
And some sold hope while knowing their promises might kill the people who believed them.
"Anything else?" Han Feng asked.
The merchant thought for a moment.
"Three caravans have disappeared in recent weeks. All were carrying materials recovered from convergence zones. None left any wreckage."
"Nothing at all?"
"Nothing. No bodies, animals, or wagons. The last one departed from a settlement called Salt Rest. Two of its passengers were cultivators working for the Regional Council."
Han Feng looked at him more closely.
"They didn't find the bodies?"
"Not even one. Only marks on the ground, as if the caravan had suddenly stopped. One search party found an area where spiritual energy seemed to have vanished completely. But the site was sealed off before anyone could investigate further."
The information reminded Han Feng of Mei Qiu's account of the instruments that had disappeared from a confiscated storage facility.
For three seconds, every instrument had registered a complete absence of energy.
Then the instruments themselves had vanished without being destroyed.
The similarities were interesting.
They weren't yet proof that the incidents were connected.
"Where is Salt Rest?"
The merchant explained the direction and pointed out a nearby fork in the road. Han Feng memorized the route, thanked him with a gesture, and walked away before the survivors could insist on offering further rewards.
When he reached the next rise, he stopped and watched the caravan reorganize in the valley. The men were working to right one of the wagons. The woman distributed water to the injured, while the merchant inspected the sacks of grain that could still be salvaged.
They would survive, at least for now.
Han Feng resumed walking.
At dusk, he found a small spring between two rock formations.
The water was clear, but a thin layer of bluish particles floated near the surface. He examined the flow with his spiritual perception and concluded that the spring had been contaminated by residue from a distant convergence zone.
The concentration was low, probably insufficient to injure a cultivator of his level, but prolonged consumption might cause fever in an ordinary person.
He didn't drink it.
Instead, he took a container of stored water from his bag and sat in the shade of a rock.
As he rested, he reviewed the day's events.
The Gray Claw Gang.
The Ashen Master.
Hybrid techniques sold to desperate cultivators.
The missing caravans.
Reports of regions where energy appeared to cease existing.
Each incident might have an independent explanation. Together, however, they suggested that the Convergence was producing consequences beyond scarcity and competition for resources.
The world wasn't merely recovering from a catastrophe.
Its most fundamental structures were being tested, and some people had already begun exploiting the weaknesses.
Han Feng opened his eyes.
A nearly imperceptible vibration passed through his inner consciousness.
The Celestial Diagram.
This time, the reaction wasn't an isolated pulse. One of the diagram's outer lines seemed to tremble, while a small region near the center briefly lost its light.
The phenomenon vanished before Han Feng could examine it more closely.
He remained motionless.
There was no one nearby. The spring continued to flow, and the bluish particles maintained their irregular movement. Nothing had visibly changed in the sky or the surrounding stones.
Even so, Han Feng felt a distant pressure, similar to the sensation of being watched from somewhere so remote that distance itself had begun to lose its meaning.
He didn't attempt to respond.
Instead, he reinforced the Celestial Veil and withdrew every trace of energy he had allowed to circulate during meditation.
Whether the sensation came from the Diagram, a phenomenon caused by the Convergence, or a flaw in his own perception, he couldn't determine.
One thing, however, was clear.
The reactions were becoming more frequent.
Han Feng recalled the tablet hidden in his clothing and the inscription that had seemed to change beneath the light of the stars. He also thought of the black door beneath Three Stones Station, whose existence didn't correspond to any known record of convergence fissures.
He didn't establish a definite connection between them.
Not yet.
Incomplete knowledge was a particularly dangerous trap for those who possessed enough power to act before understanding the consequences.
Han Feng stood and chose a different route from the one he had originally planned.
He wouldn't travel directly to Dry Well City. First, he would pass through Salt Rest, observe the site where the caravans had disappeared, and decide whether further investigation was worthwhile.
If he found signs of an organization operating behind the incidents, he would gather information before approaching it.
If the area was contaminated by an anomaly capable of erasing energy and matter, he would leave without trying to prove his courage.
The world already had more than enough people willing to die for answers.
Han Feng intended to live long enough to find them.
Far away, in a windowless room, a white flame burned inside a stone lamp.
A man seated before it received a report from a messenger. He read the first few lines without reacting, but his fingers stopped when he reached the description of the traveler who had defeated the Gray Claw Gang.
"A cultivator concealing his true strength," the messenger reported. "None of the survivors could determine his actual level. The leader claims his hybrid technique was dismantled with a single touch."
The man turned the page.
"And his name?"
"They couldn't discover it. He asked about the Ashen Master and the missing caravans. Then he headed north."
The man remained silent.
Three objects lay on the table before him: an incomplete map of the convergence zones, a small sealed container, and a stone tablet resembling the one Han Feng carried.
Three characters had been engraved on the tablet with a precision that contradicted the irregular appearance of its material.
Beside them rested a black fragment inside an open case.
The man dismissed the messenger and waited until the door had closed. Then he brought his hand close to the case without touching the fragment.
"He has appeared again," he murmured.
It was unclear whether he meant the traveler, someone searching for the tablet, or a presence far older than either.
The fragment remained motionless for several seconds.
Then its surface absorbed the light of the lamp.
A thin line appeared down its center, so narrow that it could have been mistaken for a crack.
The man immediately drew back.
The line vanished.
He closed the case, placed a seal over its lid, and stored it inside a reinforced compartment. Only then did he return to the report.
"Do not capture him," he ordered, though he was alone. "Do not attempt to speak with him. And above all, do not lead him to the door."
The map showed Three Stones Station, Salt Rest, and a series of regions where caravans had disappeared. Red lines connected the locations, but none reached the known position of the black door.
Even so, someone had drawn a circle around an empty space at the far northern edge of the map.
Beneath it, a sentence had been written in faded ink:
When the path can no longer be found, the path will begin searching.
The man extinguished the lamp.
In the darkness, a low sound came from inside the sealed compartment.
It wasn't a tremor, nor the crack of breaking stone.
It sounded like something that had remained silent for a very long time and had just taken its first breath.
And beneath Three Stones Station, the black door remained closed.
But the vertical line at its center was no longer perfectly still.