The forest swallowed him.
Xuan moved swiftly, his steps light on the roots and stones, his chains rattling faintly beneath his skin. Behind him, the valley shrank into silence, and with it the fragile roof he had left behind.
He did not look back.
The woman's words still clung to his ears: "Even roofs cannot hold storms forever."
The further he ran, the heavier they grew, until they were not words at all but chains around his chest, pulling with every breath.
* * * * * * * * *
By nightfall he reached the slopes of a barren ridge. The sky was bruised purple, streaked with ash-colored clouds. He found a hollow beneath a leaning pine and sat cross-legged, his cloak wrapped loosely around his shoulders.
He had not eaten since dawn. Hunger gnawed faintly, but he ignored it. His body had endured worse.
Instead, he listened.
The forest was alive — crickets chirped, owls called, wind shifted through the pines — but beneath it all was the restless murmur of his storms. They rattled like caged beasts, pressing against the chains within him, eager to break loose.
He closed his eyes.
* * * * * * * * *
Inside, the stormscape writhed. Poison gnawed at the walls of his veins, fire clawed at his marrow, silence pressed against his skull, threads coiled like vipers.
Normally he forced them into submission, crushing them with sheer will until his blood threatened to boil over.
But tonight… they moved differently.
Calmer. Slower.
As though the faint memory of the woman's humming still lingered in his blood. As though the warmth of her rice gruel and the flower she had tucked behind his ear still anchored them.
He inhaled, exhaled.
And instead of clamping down with chains, he let the memory steady him.
The storms rolled, restless, but they did not lash out. They circled within him like wolves prowling a fence, waiting, testing.
For the first time, he did not taste blood on his tongue.
* * * * * * * * *
He opened his eyes slowly. The fire he had built crackled low, embers casting faint shadows against the rocks. His breath misted in the cold night air.
The peace was thin — fragile as spider silk — but it was there.
Xuan stared into the flames. His hands tightened unconsciously on his knees.
It had been easier with her.
The thought came unbidden, unwelcome. He scowled, pushing it down. But the truth lingered.
It had been easier when she was there, humming by the river, watching him with eyes that never flinched.
It had been easier when there was a roof between him and the storms.
Now there was only stone, wind, and his own solitude.
* * * * * * * * *
He remembered the garden fence. The crooked poles, the herbs she had asked him to carry. He remembered the evening fireflies, drifting like stars above the river. He remembered the brush of her hand against his as they lifted the doorframe together.
He ground his teeth.
Kindness is a chain heavier than any storm.
But he could not cut it away. Not this time.
* * * * * * * * *
The night stretched long. He cultivated until dawn, the storms restless but contained. His chains did not rattle once.
When morning light spilled over the ridge, Xuan rose, shoulders stiff. He had not slept, but he did not feel weak. If anything, the stillness inside him sharpened his focus.
He began walking again, deeper into the mountains.
* * * * * * * * *
By midday he found a stream. Kneeling, he drank deeply, the cold water biting his throat. His reflection stared back at him from the rippling surface — sharp eyes, pale face, hair tangled from wind and blood.
For a heartbeat, he thought he saw something else in the water. A flower tucked behind his ear.
He jerked his head, and the image scattered.
When he straightened, the stream was only water again.
* * * * * * * * *
He continued on, following deer trails up the slope. The air grew thinner, colder, but his steps never faltered.
At dusk he stopped at a cliffside overlooking the valley. Smoke still rose faintly in the distance where Iron Banner soldiers had burned their dead. His jaw tightened.
They would not stop. More would come. Stronger. Faster.
He would have to grow.
* * * * * * * * *
That night, he sat once more in meditation.
This time, when the storms pressed harder, he did not fight them with brutality. He remembered the stillness of fireflies, the rhythm of her humming, the warmth of simple food. He let those memories guide his chains, weaving the storms into a circle instead of a cage.
For a moment, they obeyed.
His body grew heavy with exhaustion, but not from resistance. It was the weight of holding balance, of walking a line between collapse and peace.
When he opened his eyes, dawn had already touched the horizon.
The storms were quieter.
He knew they would rise again, fiercer than ever. But for now, he had taken one step forward.
* * * * * * * * *
Xuan rose, stretching the stiffness from his limbs. The wind pulled at his cloak, carrying the distant cries of crows.
He set his gaze north, toward the higher peaks.
There would be no more roofs. No more gardens. No more fireflies by the river.
Only storms.
And he would walk them alone.
* * * * * * * * *
The Iron Banner compound smelled of smoke and iron.
Han Ji walked its halls with slow, deliberate steps, the weight of failure dragging at his boots. His cloak was torn, his left arm bound, his men scattered and bloodied. Fewer than half had returned from the mountains.
He entered the great council chamber, where the elders sat among banners and braziers, their eyes sharp as blades. Murmurs rippled at the sight of him — a veteran inspector, wounded, with soldiers broken behind him.
Han Ji bowed stiffly.
"The survivor lives."
The chamber fell silent.
* * * * * * * * *
One elder leaned forward, voice dry as ash. "Tell us."
Han Ji's jaw tightened. "He carries the storms of many. His chains devoured our men's Lein as if drinking water. He fought with balance, not frenzy. Discipline. Ruthless efficiency. This is no half-dead wretch crawling from the kennel. This is a wolf grown sharper by blood."
Another elder's lips curled. "Exaggerations. Thirteen captains at once would devour any man."
Han Ji's voice sharpened. "I saw him. I struck him myself. He is real. And he is not alone."
The elders stirred uneasily.
* * * * * * * * *
Han Ji continued. "A woman shielded him. My men faltered under her gaze. Their thoughts clouded, their strikes faltered. Some forgot why they carried weapons at all. It was not Lein. It was… something else."
A murmur swept the chamber.
"Another sect's trick?"
"A hidden Dao?"
"A forbidden technique?"
Han Ji hesitated. Then he said quietly:
"She stood calm, as though none of this touched her. It was not the strength of storms. It was older. Deeper. As though the world itself bent for her."
The silence grew heavy.
* * * * * * * * *
At last, the eldest among them spoke. His beard was white, his eyes sharp with memory.
"Describe her."
Han Ji's voice was steady. "Her bearing was… serene. Her words carried weight. She said there was no storm, only a river and a roof. My men nearly believed her."
The elder's eyes narrowed. For a moment, something flickered there — recognition, disbelief, fear. He leaned back slowly, his knuckles whitening on the arm of his chair.
"Impossible," he muttered.
Another elder frowned. "What is impossible?"
The old man's voice was brittle. "That she lives. That she still walks these mountains."
Han Ji's brow furrowed. "You know her."
The elder's gaze cut to him sharply. "You know nothing, Inspector. Speak no more of her. Not here. Not to anyone."
* * * * * * * * *
The chamber erupted in argument.
Some elders demanded immediate action: "Send more forces! Exterminate him before he grows!"
Others whispered of opportunity: "If he carries thirteen storms within him, imagine binding him to our banner!"
The old man slammed his staff. "Fools. You know not what you toy with. That boy's blood is a curse, not a prize."
The council fractured, voices colliding like storms in a cage.
Han Ji stood silent, his thoughts circling the memory of the hut — the calm woman in the doorway, the wolf who vanished into the trees, the blood-soaked soil where peace had once grown.
* * * * * * * * *
Far away, in the dark halls of the Iron Hand Sect, news of Iron Banner's failure arrived before the embers cooled.
The spies whispered eagerly: the survivor was real, the great Iron Banner humbled.
Elder Ma sat with a thin smile, his voice rasping through the gloom.
"So the wolf walks indeed."
His fellow elders shifted uneasily. One asked, "Shall we hunt him?"
Elder Ma's smile widened. "No. Let Banner bleed first. Let them fear what they cannot kill. We will wait… and then we will claim him. A wolf caged beneath our hand will make Murim bow."
Laughter echoed, sharp and hungry.
* * * * * * * * *
Rumors spread faster than wind.
In taverns, merchants whispered of soldiers who returned raving, of a woman who unmade men's thoughts, of a wolf who walked with storms coiled in chains.
Some swore the survivor had eaten the hearts of the captains. Others claimed he had been chosen by Heaven, cursed to end Murim itself.
Children sang songs of the storm wolf, their words mocking and fearful all at once.
* * * * * * * * *
But in the Iron Banner's highest halls, silence clung like frost.
The eldest elder sat alone after the council dispersed, staring into the brazier's dying flames. His voice was barely a whisper, lost to the smoke.
"Li Ai Jing… How can you still be here?"
* * * * * * * * *
Far from the sects, on a barren ridge, Xuan sat alone. The wind tore at his cloak, his eyes set on the endless horizon.
His storms rattled faintly, but his gaze was steady.
He had left the roof behind.
Now, only storms remained.