They left the open plain behind.
The grass gave way to uneven stone paths, half-hidden under roots that had been growing for centuries. The air cooled as the trees grew taller, their branches stretching together overhead until the sky became a broken mosaic of green and gold.
Shen Hao walked in silence, his steps unhurried. The Tarsa moved around him without speaking much, as if the forest itself listened to every sound they made.
From time to time, the leader glanced back, perhaps expecting questions that never came. Shen Hao's eyes, however, were busy, reading the land, the Qi in the soil, the faint scars in the bark of trees where weapons had once struck.
The forest felt old. Tired. But unbroken.
After a while, the path opened into a wide clearing pressed against a cliffside. There, the village revealed itself, simple homes of wood and stone, smoke curling gently from chimneys, doorways draped with cloth faded by wind and sun.
Children peeked from behind door frames, their eyes wide and unblinking. Women and elders stepped outside slowly, their hands paused mid-task. The returning warriors were greeted first with relief, then with surprise at the stranger among them.
Shen Hao caught the murmurs as they moved deeper in.
"He's not one of them..."
"I felt it from here… his strength."
"Is he here to help?"
He said nothing. His gaze swept across the homes: reinforced walls, doorways built narrow for easier defense, bundles of supplies near the entrances as if always ready for flight. A place shaped by fear as much as by need.
They brought him to a broad, circular stone hut near the far edge of the village. Inside, the air was warm with the smell of herbal tea. A small gathering of elders sat waiting, their expressions caught between caution and curiosity.
The chief rose as Shen Hao stepped in. He was older than the rest, the white markings on his shoulders standing out against skin darkened by years of sun. His back was straight despite the weight of years, and his eyes held the calm of someone who had seen more loss than most could bear.
He greeted Shen Hao with a slow fist-in-palm salute.
Chief: "You must be the one my people mistook for an enemy outside the ridge. For that, I offer my apology."
Shen Hao: "There's no need. In their place, I would have done the same."
The chief's lips lifted in a faint smile. He motioned for him to sit. A clay cup of steaming tea was set before Shen Hao, plain, without spiritual energy, but brewed with care.
The chief studied him for a moment before speaking again.
Chief: "I'm told you held back. That you could have ended them easily, yet chose not to."
Shen Hao: "I wasn't here to harm anyone. And besides,"
He took a slow sip of tea, his tone dry.
"they wouldn't have touched me even if they tried for a hundred years."
A few elders exchanged quiet chuckles. The tension in the room eased by a measure.
The chief leaned forward.
Chief: "You are strong. Stronger than any who have walked into this village in generations."
He paused, his voice quieter now.
Chief: "May I ask what brings you here, Shen Hao?"
Shen Hao's answer came without hesitation.
Shen Hao: "Passing through. But sometimes, when you pass through, you see things that shouldn't be ignored."
The chief held his gaze for a long breath before nodding.
Chief: "We are the Tarsa, once from Eldaros, now from nowhere. We survived the death of a world only to fall under the shadow of the Black Valley."
The words "Black Valley" left his mouth like something bitter.
Chief: "Their leader is a man named Vurek. Peak of the eighth stage. He thrives on fear, and each month he comes under the moon to take what little we have left."
Shen Hao set the tea down with a soft tap.
Shen Hao: "Tonight, then."
The chief's eyes narrowed slightly.
Chief: "Yes. Tonight."
Shen Hao stood, the weight of decision already in his stance.
Shen Hao: "Get your people indoors. Worry about nothing. I'll be at the gate."
It came moving through the forest, curling around the edges of the Tarsa village. Not harsh, not wild, only steady, carrying a chill that whispered of something drawing near.
Night had now settled completely. Above, the stars hid themselves behind thick, moving clouds, leaving the sky dim and heavy. Lanterns along the dirt road flickered uneasily, their flames bowing as though they too felt the weight of what was coming.
The village was not asleep. It was silent.
Not the silence of rest, but the silence of waiting. Doors closed. Windows dark. Families gathered inside their homes, whispering soft prayers, steadying their breaths. They knew this night was different. They knew who was on their way.
Every elder in the village had spoken of this moment. The men had sharpened tools they barely believed would help them. Mothers hushed their children without giving reasons, because the reason was written across every adult face already.
It was not fear alone that filled the air, it was resignation.
And above it all, one man had fallen asleep.
Shen Hao lay stretched across the roof of the chief's house, hands tucked behind his head, one foot dangling lazily off the edge. His chest rose and fell in a calm rhythm, a faint sound slipping from his nose that might have been a snore.
Inside his mind, Mo Han's voice stirred, steady as stone:
"They have arrived."
Then came Lingfeng, sharp with sarcasm:
"Master, your guests are here. Should I prepare tea for them, or just let you drool into your beard?"
Shen Hao shifted, rubbing his eyes with one hand and scratching his head with the other. His voice was low, half-asleep.
"…Took them long enough."
He sat up, spine bending lazily, and glanced toward the village gate.
There, beyond the line of wooden posts, a faint orange glow began to spread. Torches. Dozens of them. And beneath the firelight, the steady rhythm of boots striking the earth.
They were coming.
The torches grew brighter as they broke through the treeline.
First came the sound, rhythmic, practiced. Dozens of feet moving in step, not in formation like soldiers, but in confidence, like men who had walked into many villages before this one and always left with whatever they wanted.
Then came the figures.
The Black Valley crew.
Roughly eighty men. Some carried swords, others axes, a few even spears. Armor patched together from whatever they had looted in the past. Their expressions were the same: sharp grins, hard eyes, and a kind of hunger that was not for food.
At their front walked a man who didn't grin.
Vurek.
His hands were folded neatly behind his back, his long dark robe dragging across the dirt. His face was still, no anger, no excitement, only a cold, unblinking calm. He did not need to shout, nor gesture. His very presence carried weight, and the men behind him knew their role without being told.
Trailing at his side were four elders of the Black Valley, each hardened by years of taking from the weak. Their steps were slow, deliberate, and their eyes carried the arrogance of men who had survived too many raids to imagine being stopped now.
The villagers emerged, one by one. Not armed, not standing to resist, only stepping out of their doors to line the path, silent witnesses to yet another night of submission. No words of protest. No cries. Only the quiet sound of children clinging to their mothers.
One of the elders, impatient, shoved past a woman holding a child.
"Out of the way."
She lowered her head and obeyed.
No one moved to defend her. Not because they did not wish to, but because this was the way it had always been.
Lingfeng's voice stirred in Shen Hao's mind, dry as ever:
"They do enjoy their theater, don't they?"
From his place on the roof, Shen Hao stood, stretching slowly as though waking from an afternoon nap rather than a night of reckoning. He did not step forward yet. Instead, he watched.
Vurek advanced, calm, the crowd parting before him as if the dirt itself bent away from his path.
Then one of the younger men, eager to prove himself, broke from the group. He kicked open the door of a house, expecting screams and easy loot.
Instead, the air cracked.
A sound like thunder rolled through the street, and the man flew back out of the doorway, his body tumbling through the air before crashing into a barrel, then sliding into the dirt with a groan.
The street froze.
From inside the house, barefoot, hair still disheveled from sleep, and robe hanging loosely from one shoulder, Shen Hao stepped into view.
He scratched his head and spoke plainly, his tone almost bored.
"…Finally. I was starting to think you lost your way."
The silence deepened.
Every eye turned toward him. Some filled with confusion, others narrowing with hostility.
And just like that, the night shifted.