Night air smelled of cold pine and wet stone. From the ledge, the forest looked like a black sea with waves of leaves. Li Jiutian wrapped his wounded thumb with a strip torn from his sleeve. The jade throbbed beneath the bandage, breathing through the crack like a fish opening and closing its mouth.
The fox—Xiao Huli—lifted her head. Her two tails traced in the dark a sign Jiutian was beginning to read like a language: danger near.
"The ash‑mark is calling us," he said softly. "If we follow the riverbed, there'll be less trail."
The fox touched the jade with her nose; the lunar light she had woven over the thorn burned faintly, as if to say: I can hold it… for now.
They descended in silence. Jiutian attempted Shadowless Step with care; the damage in his meridians stole precision, but discipline gave him back balance. Xiao Huli leapt root to stone as if the forest were the memory of her body. With each jump, the bond tightened, tuning their heartbeats until, at times, they were one.
At the river's edge they found a collapsed watch‑hermitage: four pillars, broken tiles, nine empty niches in the wall like mouths without lamps.
"The Hermitage of Nine Lanterns," Jiutian recognized. "On old maps it guarded pilgrims' routes."
No pilgrims remained. Only moss and the smell of burned resin… recent.
"He has our trail," he murmured.
He knelt by Xiao Huli and checked her pads. A tiny shard of slate was lodged there. He plucked it gently, holding her paw with both hands. The fox did not pull away; she tilted her head and, with a gesture so simple it hurt, licked the bandage on Jiutian's thumb.
The bond shivered and then turned serene. A clean warmth passed between them, closing a loose thread in the prince's meridians.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Xiao Huli…"
The fox answered with a soft chirr, and her voice—the lake's—brushed, for an instant, the edge of the human:
"Jiutian."
The syllable pierced him with sweetness and vertigo. There was no time to marvel.
Ash.
It did not smell like campfire. It was iron ground to dust. The night tightened and, between the pillars, a gray veil rose, threaded with thorns as fine as hairs. Xie Moran stepped out of the dark as if he had always been there—still, patient. In his hand, the Black‑Bone Claw dripped a dull Qi.
"Prince Li Jiutian," he said without raising his voice. "Surrender the jade and the lunar beast. I promise you a death that does not hurt."
"Don't promise what you do not know," Jiutian answered, rising slowly. "Your ash understands nothing of promises."
Xie Moran smiled with his lips, not his eyes.
"Ash‑and‑Thorns Seal."
The veil closed around the hermitage, thread by thread, like a spiderweb fastening to breath. The lunar film over the jade's thorn vibrated, resisting. Xiao Huli bristled. The bond warned: cut or succumb.
"Don't look at his mirrors," Jiutian cautioned.
The demon cultivator needed no mirrors. With the Black‑Bone Claw he drew a half‑circle in the air and ripped from the night a figure made of ash: a sea‑eyed girl, singing. The song brought salt, shells, a courtyard.
"Hai Xin," Xie Moran said, studying the tremor in Jiutian's pulse. "How easy it is to open a door when one wishes to enter."
The illusion took a step. It was not her; it was her absence. Enough.
"No," Jiutian said, without taking his eyes off Xiao Huli. "She is not a weapon."
The bond flared. Xiao Huli lowered her body, tails raised, and bit the air. Not an instinct— a seal.
"Moon‑Bite."
The bite struck not flesh but fiber. Where her fangs closed, threads of ash unraveled like webs at dawn. The veil thrummed; the image of Hai Xin shattered in a reflux of dust. Xie Moran's brow tightened by a hair.
"Interesting."
He moved. The Black‑Bone Claw cut on the diagonal. Jiutian met it with the broken blade; friction sparked pale light. The force flung him against a pillar. The hermitage groaned.
The Ash Seal closed again. Xiao Huli bit once more. Each Moon‑Bite left a silver arc hanging in the air for an instant—the same arcs as in the cave. One, two, three arcs… and the bond pulled taut enough to hurt.
"It won't hold," Jiutian panted. "It's draining you."
"Then drain me," he added, gripping the jade with both hands. "Lunar Bridge."
His heartbeat doubled and fed into Xiao Huli's bite. The arcs sharpened, and, for a beat, the ash‑veil opened into a mouth without teeth.
"Now!"
The fox leapt through; Jiutian followed. Xie Moran stepped, claw raised. Its tip brushed Jiutian's bandage. Blood signed the air in red.
"Don't run," Xie Moran said, calm that was real. "I'll already be in the next forest."
They ran.
The river used its noise to hide them. The bond hammered high, almost a song. Xiao Huli felt Jiutian's weakness multiplied by the loaned rhythm; he felt her fatigue as if stones had been hung from each rib.
They stopped beneath an arch of rock. Jiutian leaned back and let his breath find his stars again. Two back in place; one refused, he thought, dizzy.
"We can't keep fleeing without cutting the mark," he said. "Your Moon‑Bite can break threads, but that thorn stays inside."
Xiao Huli closed her eyes. She saw the lake behind her lids, and a door's edge that did not open for lack of tail. Three, the water had said. Not yet.
She opened her eyes and touched the bandage with her nose. Then she bit her own tail, lightly. Not to hurt— to wake the light.
The second tuft shone. A line so thin it could be mistaken for breath stretched from her tail's tip to the jade's crack. Jiutian felt it as a cool feather along his thumb. It did not hurt. The thorn answered with a tick, impatient.
"I'll sheath it from within," the gesture seemed to say. "I can't pull it yet."
"All right," Jiutian accepted. "Then we'll find someone who can. The song calls us to the sea."
Air brought the smell of salt, distant, like a promise that had not yet crossed the mountain.
"To the Shell‑Cliff," he said, recalling the map. "If Hai Xin exists outside the song, we'll find her near the water."
The fox flicked her ears. Her two tails traced a decided ring.
"Together," Jiutian said, and rested his brow to hers. The bond, still burning, turned home.
Far behind, Xie Moran studied the frayed seal. The men trembled not with fear but with having seen the edge of a trick. He cleaned the Black‑Bone Claw with a dark cloth.
"They learn fast," he said. "And that hastens the price."
He opened his left hand. On his palm, an Ash Snail turned on itself, swallowing light. He held it to the red band the air still remembered. The snail began to crawl toward the river, leaving a wake of dust that did not fall.
"Don't run," he repeated, as a courtesy. "I'll already be in the next forest."