The Broken Fang Gorge still stank of smoke and blood. The mist had thinned with morning, but the corpses remained — human and beast alike, scattered in grotesque heaps across the blackened ground. Those who had survived the night sat in weary clusters, trying to mend torn robes or bind ragged wounds.
The air was filled with whispers.
"…he held the line when the serpent came."
"His spear never faltered."
"If not for him, I wouldn't be breathing."
Every word pressed against Lin Xuan's ears like a drumbeat. He sat apart, back resting against a jagged boulder, eyes half-lidded as though asleep. The shaft of his spear lay across his knees, his fingers curled loosely around it. He gave no sign of pride or irritation. Yet within, his mind was calm but cold.
I did what was necessary to keep the line from breaking. But in their mouths, necessity turns into legend. And legends, once born, take on a life of their own.
He exhaled slowly. If there was one thing Lin Xuan had learned in both lives, it was this: nothing spread faster than misplaced hope. And hope was heavy. Heavy enough to crush the man burdened with it.
On the far side of the makeshift camp, Meng Zhao crouched with his own circle of disciples. His robes bore the marks of battle, but his posture was still straight, his chin high. In his eyes, a glint of amusement flickered.
"Do you hear them?" he asked softly, his tone like silk over steel.
Qiu Ran, his loyal hound, spat blood onto the ground. His arm was bound tightly, the flesh beneath mottled from a serpent's venom. He grimaced. "I hear fools. Praising that cripple as though he were an immortal descended."
Meng Zhao's lips curved. "And therein lies the danger. A cripple made miracle — such stories are irresistible. Even elders watching from afar will hear of it. And if he grows too quickly, their eyes will turn to him, not to us."
One of the younger followers frowned. "Then… do we strike him down now?"
Meng Zhao chuckled, low and dangerous. "No. Strike too soon, and suspicion falls upon us. Better to let the gorge itself devour him. Better to make others believe that they demanded it."
His gaze slid toward Lin Xuan, sitting still as stone, indifferent to the voices around him.
"Let them lift him onto their shoulders," Meng Zhao murmured. "And when the weight of their hopes drags him into the abyss, we will be the ones who remain standing."
By midday, the disciples had gathered again. No elder had yet appeared, no guidance had been sent. They were left to themselves — and in such voids, voices of ambition always rose.
Meng Zhao stood atop a broken slab of stone, his figure tall against the mist. His voice carried, rich with false warmth.
"Brothers, sisters — last night tested us. Many have fallen. Yet we remain. And why?" He lifted a hand dramatically. "Because when darkness came, one among us did not falter. One man faced the serpent's fangs when others recoiled."
A ripple passed through the crowd. Dozens of eyes turned — inevitably — toward Lin Xuan.
Lin Xuan did not move. His expression remained calm, detached, as though their stares slid off him like water.
Meng Zhao's smile deepened. "Without Brother Lin, would we have endured? Without his spear, would the serpent lie dead and we still live?"
Murmurs of agreement rose, fragile but insistent. Exhausted disciples clung to the memory of last night's salvation.
Lin Xuan's fingers tightened fractionally on his spear. This is it. He feeds the fire while pretending to praise.
Lin Xuan rose slowly. Dust fell from his robes. His voice, when it came, was calm and steady.
"I struck where I had to. Nothing more. Do not mistake survival for leadership."
The murmurs faltered. Surprise flickered in weary eyes.
But Meng Zhao stepped down smoothly, his tone now tinged with gentle reproach. "Brother Lin, humility is a virtue, but false humility is a chain. You would deny what all here have seen with their own eyes?"
"I deny nothing," Lin Xuan replied. "But sight alone is no proof of destiny. Do not lift me onto a throne I never sought."
The crowd shifted uneasily. Some nodded, but others frowned. Fear made them long for a leader. And Meng Zhao was shaping that fear like a craftsman shaping clay.
Meng Zhao spread his arms. "Then answer me this, Brother Lin. When beasts strike again — and they will — will you stand idle? Will you watch while others bleed, though you have skill enough to save them?"
The question rang like a blade drawn in silence. The crowd stilled.
Lin Xuan's eyes narrowed. Clever. Refuse, and I am branded coward. Accept, and I walk where he points — straight into his snare.
At last, he inclined his head. "If fate drives me to the front, I will strike. But know this — I protect no man who abandons himself. Each must stand, or none will."
The disciples murmured assent. Relief spread in tired eyes. To them, it was hope again. To Lin Xuan, it was a chain tightened around his neck.
Meng Zhao bowed faintly, hiding his triumph. "Then let us follow your courage, Brother Lin. The path deeper awaits."
And so the factions moved. The gorge narrowed as cliffs pressed close, mist curling thick around their ankles. From hidden crevices, eyes glowed faintly — beasts watching, waiting.
Lin Xuan walked at the fore, his spear angled downward, each step measured. Behind him shuffled the weary survivors, their trust resting — unwanted — on his shoulders.
[System Alert: Omni-Talent Observation Active]
[Analyzing beast movement… patterns acquired.]
Lin Xuan's gaze flickered, reading subtle shifts of shadow, faint tremors in the stone. His body moved almost before danger appeared. When a wolf lunged from fog, his spear lanced without pause. When serpents coiled from cracks, his strike deflected fangs.
To the others, he seemed uncanny, almost prophetic. To him, it was simply the System whispering what his instincts already suspected.
And yet with each strike, he felt the noose tightening. Every kill feeds the story Meng Zhao spins. Every step deeper, I walk his chosen road.
Hours later, as dusk bled across the gorge, Meng Zhao drifted closer under pretense of conversation.
"Brother Lin," he said smoothly, his smile hidden in the gloom. "It seems Heaven itself favors you. The beasts fall as though they recognize your strength."
Lin Xuan's tone was flat. "Beasts fall because steel pierces flesh."
Meng Zhao chuckled. "Ever the modest one. But modesty changes nothing. The others look to you now. And I, too, will trust you to guide us deeper. For only by facing the gorge's heart will we find safety."
Lin Xuan's eyes flickered to him, dark and unreadable. He said nothing.
But inside, a single thought coiled sharp and cold: So that is it. You will lead me straight into the gorge's fangs — and let them bite where you cannot.
Night fell again. Fires sputtered weakly, shadows long. The gorge's depths pulsed faintly with an ancient rhythm, like a heartbeat muffled beneath stone.
Lin Xuan sat silently at the camp's edge, spear resting across his knees, eyes closed.
But he did not sleep. For in the mist ahead, something stirred — not beast, not man, but something older.
And Meng Zhao's voice drifted soft in memory: "Only by facing the gorge's heart will we find safety."
Lin Xuan's lips curved, faint and cold.
"Very well, Meng Zhao. Lead me into your trap. Let us see who bleeds first."
The mist thickened, carrying the echo of a distant roar.