The Iron Hand Sect spread like a black tide across the valleys.
Their banners snapped in the wind, embroidered fists gleaming crimson against the mountain mist. Dozens of scouting teams broke away from the main force, each carrying orders to scour villages, ravines, and trade routes. The elders had made their decision swiftly: the "storm wolf" must be hunted down before he grew fangs long enough to bite their throats.
But their eyes were fixed in the wrong direction.
Rumors had sent them south, toward the riverlands. A merchant caravan had been found overturned there, its guards dead. The corpses bore no ordinary wounds—flesh stiffened, blood drained, faces locked in silent screams. To the frightened eyes of peasants, this was the work of the survivor.
Iron Hand accepted the tale eagerly. They wanted the wolf close, wanted to believe he was within their grasp.
* * * * * * * * *
At a ruined waystation near the river, the first clash began.
Iron Hand scouts stormed into the crumbling courtyard, blades drawn, only to find Iron Banner soldiers already there.
The two groups froze, staring at one another across the fallen timbers.
"You," an Iron Hand captain snarled, his scarred face twisting. "What business does Banner have here?"
The Banner sergeant lifted his halberd. "The same as yours. The survivor was sighted here last night."
"A lie," the Iron Hand captain spat. "You plant rumors, you spread smoke, and then you sneak in first. Do you take us for children?"
The sergeant's eyes narrowed. "Careful, dog. This is no place for your posturing. We follow the orders of our elders."
"And we follow ours," the captain said coldly, "which are to burn any Banner rat we find."
Steel hissed as both sides drew weapons.
* * * * * * * * *
The clash was swift and brutal.
Halberds swept arcs through the mist, swords flashed in narrow courtyards, boots cracked against stone. Shouts and curses echoed off the ruined walls. Arrows hissed from the shadows, lodging in shields and flesh alike.
Iron Hand fought like fists pounding stone, brutal and relentless. Iron Banner fought with precision, their halberds thrusting like disciplined waves.
The peasants hiding in the surrounding shacks covered their ears, praying the wolf would not appear to devour them all.
But no wolf came. Only men killing men in his name.
* * * * * * * * *
Elsewhere, in a fog-choked ravine, another Iron Hand squad interrogated villagers.
"Where did he go?" one bellowed, seizing an old man by the collar. "Tell us or lose your tongue!"
The villager stammered, trembling. "We—we saw nothing, honored masters—only a shadow by the bridge—"
"A shadow?" the captain snapped. "Tall? Cloaked?"
"Yes, yes! He vanished into the mist!"
The soldiers exchanged grim looks. Another sign. Another phantom.
They pushed on, leaving the villagers weeping in the dirt.
* * * * * * * * *
By nightfall, Iron Hand banners glowed like embers across the southern hills. They lit fires in villages, demanded food, seized supplies, pressed men into guiding them.
And still, the wolf did not appear.
* * * * * * * * *
In the north, Iron Banner convened their own scouts.
Around a fire, soldiers whispered.
"They say he can drink blood from the air."
"No. I heard he eats hearts."
"Fools. He was blessed by Heaven itself—thirteen captains' storms in one body. No man can stand against him."
Their officer silenced them with a glare. "Enough. We hunt shadows. Our orders are clear. The wolf is near. We will strike first and drag him back to Banner chains."
Yet even he felt unease. For all their searching, there was no trail—only corpses left by other hands, misinterpreted as the wolf's work.
The mountains themselves seemed to laugh at their blindness.
* * * * * * * * *
Skirmishes erupted over and over.
Iron Hand cut down Banner scouts in the woods. Banner retaliated, ambushing Hand riders along the river. Blood soaked the valleys, not from the storm wolf's chains, but from the sects' own blades.
Rumors multiplied.
A peddler swore he had seen the wolf devour an ox whole.
A child cried that the wolf had stolen her mother's shadow.
A farmer claimed the wolf was no man, but a demon clothed in storms.
The more the sects searched, the more the wolf grew into legend.
* * * * * * * * *
In the high council of Iron Hand, reports arrived by the hour.
"Another caravan destroyed."
"Banner dogs sighted near the valley pass."
"Our men clashed again—twelve dead."
Elder Ma sat in shadow, listening. His thin smile never faltered.
"Good," he rasped. "Let Banner bleed themselves chasing smoke. The wolf walks, but not where they think. When he shows his fangs, we will be waiting."
His eyes glittered like cold steel.
* * * * * * * * *
The valleys burned with sect conflict. The peasants whispered prayers, hiding in huts, fearful of shadows. Soldiers died in mud and mist.
But far from the chaos, a lone figure walked north, silent as stone, storms rattling faintly in his chest.
Xuan did not turn his head toward the fires behind him.
* * * * * * * * *
The fires of the sects burned behind him, but Xuan did not look back.
He walked north through ridges where mist clung to stone like torn cloth. His boots ground over gravel, his cloak hung heavy with dust, and his storms murmured in his chest like restless beasts. Each step took him farther from the valleys where Iron Hand and Iron Banner tore each other apart.
He knew where he was going.
The path wound upward into mountains harsher than any battlefield. In his last life, he had walked this very trail, though the weight on his back had been different then. His heart had been full of justice, his hands open to help any who stumbled beside him.
This time, his hands were empty.
* * * * * * * * *
By a crumbling bridge of stone, he paused.
The planks sagged under the weight of age, ropes frayed, yet it still spanned the chasm. Once, he had repaired this bridge with his own hands. In those days, peasants from the lowlands had crossed it safely, carrying grain and firewood, bowing to him as they passed.
Now, the ropes swayed in silence. No villagers came. No laughter carried across the gap.
Xuan placed his foot on the first plank. It groaned, but held. Slowly, step by step, he crossed.
At the midpoint, he stopped, staring down into the abyss.
Once, he had sworn to keep others from falling.
Now, if the world fell, he would not reach to catch it.
He walked on, chains rattling faintly inside.
* * * * * * * * *
The mountains thickened. Pines rose like spears, their shadows long, their roots twisting through black soil. The air grew colder.
Xuan's storms stirred as he climbed, memories uncoiling like smoke.
In his past life, this mountain had been a sanctuary. The cavern hidden within had been more than a refuge; it was a gathering place. Weary travelers had come, wounded cultivators had knelt at its threshold, and he had welcomed them. His storms then had been chains of protection, a shield for the weak.
He had bled for others. He had believed in peace.
That man was dead.
* * * * * * * * *
At dusk, he found a stream where deer came to drink. His reflection rippled in the water, sharp eyes above hollow cheeks. He stared at himself for a long while.
He remembered another reflection—softer, almost gentle—when he had tended wounds for strangers beside this same stream.
He bent, scooped water, drank, then turned away without a word.
The storms inside him whispered, chains rattling with approval.
* * * * * * * * *
Later, he saw smoke on the horizon.
A small village lay scattered at the base of the cliffs, its roofs low and thatched, its fields thin. A traveler staggered on the road nearby, clutching his side where blood seeped through cloth.
In his last life, Xuan would have gone down to help. He would have stopped the bleeding, shared herbs, walked the man to safety.
He stood on the ridge, watching. His fists clenched once, then loosened.
"This life is not that life," he muttered.
He turned his back. The traveler fell in the dust behind him. Xuan did not stop.
Yet the silence that followed was heavier than any storm.
* * * * * * * * *
Night fell.
The wind howled against the cliffs, carrying echoes of distant sect battles. Xuan camped beneath a jutting rock, chewing bitter roots he had dug from the soil. The storms in his chest were restless, rattling louder than before.
He closed his eyes and sat cross-legged, forcing the chains into silence.
His mind drifted to the cavern ahead. He remembered its stone walls, its hollow heart, its solitude. He remembered the lanterns that had once hung there, the prayers whispered in its shadows. He remembered the faces—grateful, hopeful, weak.
He clenched his fists until blood welled from his palms.
"No," he whispered. "This time, no faces. No prayers. No one will step through that threshold but me."
The storms quieted, bound by his vow.
* * * * * * * * *
At dawn, he rose again, climbing higher. The path grew steeper, stones sharper beneath his boots. Each breath burned colder in his lungs. His cloak whipped in the wind, and still he did not falter.
Behind him, the sects searched, killing one another over shadows. Ahead, only the mountain waited.
He welcomed its silence.
* * * * * * * * *
By noon, he reached a ridge where the land split into three valleys. He paused, scanning the distance. One valley led back to the lowlands, one east toward the sect territories, one deeper into wilderness.
In his last life, he had chosen the valley of men. He had gone where others suffered, carried their burdens.
This time, he stepped into the wilderness path.
Chains rattled faintly, storms swirling tighter. His choice was made.
* * * * * * * * *
He walked until the sun dipped low, painting the sky in crimson fire. At last, he saw it—faint in the distance, half-hidden behind jagged cliffs.
The mouth of the cavern.
It yawned like a black wound in the stone, silent, waiting.
Xuan's storms stirred restlessly, as if recognizing their home.
He tightened his cloak, his gaze hard.
"Once, I walked here for the world," he murmured. "Now, I walk here against it."
He descended toward the cavern, leaving the valleys, the sects, and his past life behind.