The morning was too still.
Xuan rose before the sun, as always. His hands worked without thought — mending the bamboo fence that the wild boars had trampled the night before. The garden rows were crooked, but he set them right, fastening loose poles with rough strips of bark. The air smelled faintly of wet soil and pine.
The woman hummed by the river, sleeves rolled, washing a bundle of herbs. Her voice carried softly, like drifting mist, and for a moment the sound made the hut feel untouchable.
But Xuan's storms were uneasy.
The chains inside his chest stirred faintly, rattling not from hunger but from pressure. He paused mid-knot, glancing toward the ridge line. The morning fog had not yet burned away, but something in the air was different. Heavy. Tainted.
The woman must have felt it too, though she said nothing. She only straightened, wringing out her sleeves, her gaze drifting to the horizon.
* * * * * * * * *
By midday, the silence of the forest broke.
First it was the rhythm of boots on dirt — faint, disciplined, too even for hunters or villagers. Then came the creak of leather armor, the clank of iron weapons. Birds scattered from the trees in nervous flocks.
Xuan set down the bamboo pole slowly. His jaw tightened.
"They're here," he murmured.
The woman turned her head, her face unreadable. "The world remembers its storms quickly."
From between the trees, figures emerged.
* * * * * * * * *
They came in ranks — twenty, then thirty, then fifty men, armored in dark iron, torches burning even under daylight. Their banners snapped in the thin mountain wind, marked with the sigil of crossed spears and chain-links: Iron Banner Sect.
At their head walked Inspector Han Ji, cloak flaring as he stepped into the clearing. His hair was streaked with grey, but his eyes were sharp, unbending as steel. This was a man who had spent his life binding storms, cutting down chaos before it spread.
The soldiers spread in formation, a half-circle around the hut and garden. The bamboo fence Xuan had just repaired looked pitiful in their shadow.
Han Ji planted his spear into the dirt, his voice carrying like a hammer-strike.
["Hear me. The kennel captains are dead. Thirteen storms silenced in one night. And yet, rumors whisper of a survivor — a wolf among sheep, walking these mountains. Whoever shelters him, whoever hides him, stands against Murim itself. Step forth, survivor. Murim demands your face."]
His words echoed across the valley.
The soldiers muttered among themselves, eyes darting to the hut. Some looked afraid — they had heard the rumors, too.
The wolf of storms. The one who devoured the captains. The cursed survivor.
* * * * * * * * *
Before Xuan could move, the door of the hut creaked open.
The woman stepped outside, her sleeves loose, her expression as calm as ever. She looked at the formation of soldiers as though they were neighbors passing by, not executioners at her door.
She stood on the threshold, hands folded loosely before her. Her voice was soft, but it carried unnaturally well in the clearing.
"There is no storm here," she said. "Only a river, and a roof."
Her words settled over the soldiers like mist. Several blinked, confusion flickering in their eyes. Their grips slackened on their weapons.
Han Ji's gaze hardened. He had felt this before — the subtle bending of will, the blurring of conviction. He straightened his shoulders, breaking through the haze with iron discipline.
"Do not be fooled," he barked. "This is no kindly hermit. This place reeks of storms."
* * * * * * * * *
The soldiers shifted uneasily. One stepped forward, raising his blade.
The woman's gaze slid to him — calm, unthreatening. The man faltered mid-step, his sword lowering as if he had forgotten why he drew it. His breathing quickened, and he stumbled back into formation, pale.
A ripple of fear moved through the ranks. Whispers rose again:
"Is she… a spirit?"
"She spoke, and my thoughts vanished—"
"Not human…"
Han Ji ground his teeth. "Enough."
He pointed his spear toward the hut, voice sharp as iron.
"The survivor is here. Tear this place apart if you must — but find him!"
* * * * * * * * *
The first soldier obeyed, steel flashing as he rushed toward the doorway.
And then Xuan moved.
The ground cracked as his chains erupted from his body, black and glistening with storm-forged hunger. They coiled around the soldier like a serpent, squeezing until bones shattered with a sickening crack.
The man screamed once, then fell limp, his body dragged to the dirt.
The clearing went silent.
Every soldier froze, staring at the lone figure who had stepped out from the shadows of the hut — pale, calm-eyed, chains writhing like living things around him.
The wolf of storms had shown his face.
* * * * * * * * *
Han Ji's grip tightened on his spear. His voice was steady, but it carried a thread of dread.
"So it is true."
The soldiers drew weapons, their storms sparking in the air like fire. But none of them moved. Not yet.
The woman stood at the doorway, her face serene, as though the garden fence and the herbs by the river still mattered more than the circle of blades.
Xuan's chains rattled once, a low warning.
The peace of the hut was broken.
And the storm had answered.
* * * * * * * * *
The silence after the first corpse was suffocating.
Chains slithered back toward Xuan's side, dripping faint traces of stolen stormlight. His expression was calm, almost detached, as though crushing a man's body was no more than mending the fence.
The soldiers tightened their grips on their weapons. Sparks of Lein storms lit the air—embers, blades of wind, tongues of flame—but none dared step first. They had heard the stories, and now they stood before the truth.
Han Ji's voice cut the hesitation.
"Forward! Break him before he breaks you!"
The order snapped the spell.
Dozens of men surged at once, their storms crashing together like a tidal wave. Spears thrust, blades sliced, arrows hissed from behind the line.
Xuan exhaled once. The chains exploded outward.
Steel shrieked as the first rank was torn apart, weapons bending like reeds. A whip of shadow lashed through three men at once, flinging them into the dirt. Another coil caught an arrow mid-flight, snapping it in two.
Blood spattered the garden rows, soaking the soil he had tended that morning.
Xuan moved through them like water around rocks—fluid, merciless, his chains carving arcs of destruction. Where one storm flared, he consumed it. Where one will wavered, he crushed it. The air filled with the stench of iron and ozone, the rattling of chains louder than drums.
The woman remained at the doorway. She had not lifted a hand, but her presence warped the battlefield.
A swordsman charged, only to forget mid-strike why he held his blade. His grip slackened, his eyes dazed, and Xuan's chain pierced his chest before he realized he was dying.
Another raised a spear, but his foot faltered as though the ground shifted. He stumbled into his comrade's strike, skewered before Xuan even reached him.
None of them understood what she was doing. To them, it felt like the world itself betrayed their steps.
But Han Ji resisted.
He stormed forward, spear blazing with iron-hardened Lein. His storm was not wild but disciplined, a steady rhythm honed by decades. He wove around the chains, cutting arcs that forced Xuan to retreat a step.
The clash of spear and chain rang like thunder.
"You carry thirteen storms in your blood," Han Ji growled, pressing forward. "You think yourself chosen? You are nothing but a curse made flesh!"
Xuan's expression did not change. "Curses live longer than blessings."
The chains coiled, snapping at the spear's haft. Han Ji twisted, breaking free, counter-thrusting at Xuan's throat. For the first time, Xuan bent backwards to avoid the strike, the tip grazing his jaw.
The inspector was strong. Stronger than the captains had been, because he carried no arrogance, only discipline.
Around them, soldiers screamed and fell, swallowed by chains or undone by their own missteps. The hut's walls trembled as storms collided, the fence splintered, herbs scattered like ash.
The woman watched it all with the same calm as if she were listening to the river.
Xuan's blood burned. His storms wanted release, to break free entirely, but he held them tighter. This was not the chaos of the kennel—this was measured, controlled. He could feel it: the balance he had grasped beneath her roof steadied him now.
But that steadiness carried weight. With every soldier that fell, with every drop of blood that stained the soil, he realized the peace he had touched was slipping away.
If he stayed, more would come. Stronger. Endless. They would not stop until the roof itself was torn down.
Han Ji lunged again, stormlight blazing from his spear. Xuan met him head-on, chains colliding with a crack that split the earth between them. Sparks erupted, shadows writhed, and for an instant their gazes locked.
Behind Han Ji's iron focus, Xuan saw something else: fear. Not of death—of what Xuan was becoming.
The inspector snarled, forcing his will through clenched teeth. "You cannot be allowed to live."
Xuan's reply was quiet, almost lost in the din.
"Then I will not live here."
His chains erupted all at once, not in precise strikes but in a sweeping storm. The ground tore open, bodies flung aside like leaves in a gale. Han Ji staggered back, barely holding his footing as the formation shattered.
Soldiers screamed, scattering in chaos. Some fled outright, their courage broken beyond repair. Others writhed on the ground, caught in chains that devoured the last flickers of their storms.
When the dust settled, Xuan stood at the center, breathing evenly, eyes unreadable. The air reeked of blood and burned earth.
He looked once toward the hut.
The woman stood there, serene, her gaze meeting his. She did not smile, did not frown. Only spoke softly, her words carrying even through the din of dying storms.
"Even roofs cannot hold storms forever."
Xuan's chest tightened. He did not answer.
He turned, his chains coiling back around him like serpents, and vanished into the trees.
The clearing fell to silence, broken only by groans of the wounded.
Han Ji knelt, his spear driven into the dirt to keep himself upright. His eyes fixed on the woman still standing in the doorway. Something about her—her stillness, her presence—gnawed at him.
A memory whispered from old texts, from tales half-buried. A name flickered in his mind like a half-forgotten dream.
Li Ai Jing.
But when he looked again, the woman was only watching the river, as though nothing had happened.
Han Ji clenched his jaw. He did not speak the name aloud.