The mist curled through the clearing like a living thing, brushing against Feng Yin's robes, cold as a whisper from the grave. Yet the chill that lingered in him came not from the air, but from memory—the image of Meng Ru's eyes: deep, ancient, and empty of anything human save for intent.
Feng Yin had seen arrogance, cruelty, diligence, even flashes of brilliance. But Meng Ru was none of these. His was a talent without conceit, cruelty without malice, calculation without hesitation. Every action reduced to a variable; every life, a number in an equation.
Strength respects no rules. The sect's creed had always been interpreted as license for power. But what if true strength was something colder—perfect, amoral precision?
A ripple stirred his consciousness. Not his thought—something alien, yet clear as carved jade: Jade Dragon Gu… born of stone, nurtured by wood essence… its shell not a defense, but a prison.
The vision vanished, but its meaning lingered. Records spoke of the egg's shell as an unbreachable fortress; yet if it was a prison, it might yield not to force, but to release. Was this enlightenment—or intrusion?
Far from the clearing, Meng Ru lay prone upon a high outcrop, motionless. The gully spread beneath him—a wound in the earth slick with moss and slime. Snakes writhed in its depths, their scales glistening with faint wood-path dao marks. His half-closed eyes saw more than sight: a pulse of primeval essence radiated from him, mapping the terrain, marking every serpent, every crevice.
The main pack coiled in the center. Five Rank two guards circled the perimeter. In a shaded recess—there, the target: a single egg glowing with milky light.
North, Li Chen's Poison Dart Gu released its tainted bait; a sweet, deadly scent drifted on the wind. South, Wang Lei approached under Stealth Gu's cloak, his nervous steps betraying resentment.
Li Chen will draw four guards. One will remain.
Twelve breaths after they move—Wang Lei distracts the last. The gap: three breaths.
The snakes stirred, driven by instinct. Four guards slid north; the fifth coiled tighter around the nest.
Now.
A stone clattered from the south wall. The last guard turned—exactly three breaths.
Meng Ru descended. Lesser Strength Gu pulsed once, propelling him in a silent flow of movement. In three heartbeats, he would be at the nest; in the fourth, gone again—leaving only a ripple in the mist and a storm of fangs behind.