The scouts returned broken.
Not bleeding, not limping — broken in a way that made even hardened warriors uneasy.
They filed into the Iron Banner sect hall under torchlight, their faces pale, their eyes unfocused. The great banners of iron and flame hung from the rafters, but the men's gazes slid off them as though they were strangers in their own hall.
Inspector Han Ji sat waiting at the head of the chamber. His hair was streaked with grey, his shoulders squared by years of discipline. A man who had seen war, betrayal, and storms — but even he frowned when he saw the state of his men.
"Report," he ordered.
The lead scout bowed stiffly. His voice cracked like a reed in wind.
"We… searched the mountains, as ordered. Found a hut. A woman. But…"
He trailed off, confusion creasing his brow.
Han Ji's eyes narrowed. "But what?"
The man rubbed his temple. "I… I don't remember."
* * * * * * * * *
The words froze the chamber.
Han Ji's jaw tightened. "You don't remember?"
Another scout stepped forward, trembling. "We were certain. Certain the survivor was there. We saw traces — footprints, smoke. But when we looked… when she spoke to us… it was as though the thought fell from my head."
The rest of the scouts nodded weakly, their faces pale with shame.
Han Ji's hand curled on the table. Manipulation. Not storm, not Lein. Something subtler, more insidious.
He dismissed them with a curt gesture. "Go. Rest."
When they were gone, he sat alone in the chamber, staring at the flickering brazier.
Someone does not wish the truth to be found.
* * * * * * * * *
The next morning, the Iron Banner sect elders convened. Their council chamber was a circle of iron pillars, banners swaying gently in the mountain wind.
Han Ji stood before them, voice low and sharp.
"My men returned empty-handed. Not by incompetence — by force. Something clouded their minds. Someone erased their memory."
Murmurs swept the elders.
One old master slammed his staff. "Then it is true. A survivor hides in those mountains. One strong enough to shatter the captains, and cunning enough to cloak his tracks."
Another snorted. "Nonsense. The kennel was a slaughter born of pride. Thirteen captains tearing each other apart — and the weakling who crawled out after is not worth our worry."
Han Ji's gaze darkened. "If he was weak, why send scouts at all? Why erase their memory? No. Someone survived — and someone powerful shields him."
The chamber fell to uneasy silence.
* * * * * * * * *
Far across Murim, the Iron Hand Sect also convened.
Their council hall was carved from black stone, the walls etched with the fist sigil that had crushed a hundred rivals in generations past.
The sect leader, Elder Ma, sat hunched like a vulture, his eyes glinting.
"The kennel captains are gone. All of them," he rasped. "A storm swallowed them whole. And yet no corpses were recovered. No weapons. No proof."
Another elder spoke, his voice wary. "The Blood Dao has always been cursed. To devour storms is to devour fate. If one survived — if one carries fragments of all thirteen — then Murim itself will tremble."
A third slammed his palm against the stone table. "Then find him! Whoever he is, kill him before his Dao festers further!"
Elder Ma only smiled thinly. "Or… recruit him."
The council erupted in furious shouts. To harbor such a danger was unthinkable — yet to control it would make them unstoppable.
* * * * * * * * *
Rumors began to spread like wildfire.
In taverns, travelers whispered of a wolf who walked alone, storms rattling in his blood. Some said he had eaten the hearts of the captains. Others swore he had been chosen by heaven, cursed to destroy Murim.
A merchant passing through the mountains swore he had seen torchlight in the trees, and heard whispers in the wind: "The storm devours the wolf, the wolf devours the storm."
Fear twisted with fascination. A myth was being born.
* * * * * * * * *
By the week's end, Han Ji received sealed orders from his superiors.
[The truth of the kennel massacre must not remain buried.
If there is a survivor, he must be found.
If he cannot be captured, he must be killed.
The balance of Murim depends on it.]
Han Ji read the orders in silence.
Then he called for fifty men, the best trackers and storm-binders the Iron Banner sect could muster.
"Prepare," he said. His voice was quiet, but iron-hard. "We march at dawn."
* * * * * * * * *
Far above the mountains, unseen by their mortal eyes, storm clouds gathered.
And in a quiet hut by the river, a man called Lin Xuan mended a garden fence, unaware that the world was already moving against him.
* * * * * * * * *
The sound of running water filled the valley.
Xuan knelt by the fence of the small garden, tying the split bamboo poles back together. His fingers worked in silence, but his storms shifted uneasily within him. Not the violent rage of battle — something subtler, like a warning.
The woman stood nearby, rinsing herbs in a basin. She looked up once, watching him work, then said softly:
"The world does not like its storms wandering free."
Xuan's hands stilled. He glanced up at her, eyes narrowing.
"You've felt it too."
She nodded. "Men move in the trees. Their hearts are noisy. Their thoughts are sharper than knives."
Her words were calm, but Xuan felt the truth in them. The sects were closing in. He had known it would happen eventually — the massacre of the kennel could not remain buried. But knowing it and feeling the pressure approach were two different things.
He tied off the last knot on the fence and rose. His chains stirred faintly, restless, as though tasting the air.
"They'll come for me," he said at last.
She tilted her head. "Then be ready."
* * * * * * * * *
Cultivation by the Hearth
That night, Xuan sat cross-legged by the fire. His storms churned: poison gnawed, silence pressed, fire flared, threads coiled. Normally he forced them into chains until blood welled from his lips.
But tonight he tried something different.
He remembered the river's reflection, her laughter in the trees, the flower she had tucked behind his ear. He remembered the warmth of plain rice gruel in his chest, the memory of his mother's rain-soaked rice cakes.
Instead of suppressing the storms with brutal force, he let those fragments of gentleness steady him.
The poison dulled. The fire burned low. The silence eased.
For the first time, the chains within him did not rattle.
* * * * * * * * *
He opened his eyes. The woman sat nearby, grinding herbs. She looked at him without surprise, as though she had expected this.
"You are quieter," she said.
Xuan blinked. "…The storms are still there. But they… rest."
She smiled faintly. "Even storms need a roof."
Her words pressed into him. For the first time since his rebirth, Xuan had achieved a kind of balance. Not a breakthrough of strength — but a breakthrough of control.
It terrified him more than blood. Because it meant he was beginning to rely on her presence.
* * * * * * * * *
Gentle Bond
The following day, she asked him to help repair the wooden doorframe. Xuan lifted the heavy beam easily, but she still reached up to steady it, her hands brushing against his.
He froze, but she only said lightly: "You don't have to hold the world alone."
Later, when he carried water from the river, she walked beside him, pointing out herbs and wildflowers. At one patch she plucked a sprig and tucked it behind his ear again.
He scowled, muttering, "Childish."
"Human," she corrected, smiling. "You should try it more often."
He didn't remove the flower until nightfall.
* * * * * * * * *
Evening by the River
That evening, they sat by the riverbank. Fireflies drifted above the water, glowing like stars fallen to earth.
The woman hummed the same wordless tune she had before. This time, Xuan did not interrupt. He only listened, letting it weave through the night air.
For once, the silence inside him was not hostile.
"Storms don't pass," he said suddenly, his voice low. "They only destroy."
She turned to him, her eyes reflecting firefly light. "All storms pass, Xuan. Even if they leave ruin behind, they end. That is their nature. To rage, and then to fade."
Xuan looked away, jaw tightening. He wanted to deny it. But he remembered her words — even storms need a roof — and found he couldn't.
* * * * * * * * *
The Warning
As they rose to return to the hut, Xuan froze.
Far on the ridges beyond the trees, faint torches flickered — distant, but too many, too organized to be hunters.
The woman followed his gaze. Her expression did not change.
"They've come," she said simply.
Xuan's chains stirred violently beneath his skin. The peace of the hut felt fragile, like glass under a hammer.
He clenched his fists. "Then the roof will fall."
She shook her head. "No. The roof will hold. For now."
Her calmness infuriated him — and yet, it was the only thing that kept his storms from spilling out.
* * * * * * * * *
That night, as he sat awake, staring at the flickering fire, he realized something he did not want to admit:
He did not fear the sects. He feared losing the fragile peace this woman had given him.
And that, more than any storm, was dangerous.