Feng Tianyu stood in the clearing like a blade drawn from its sheath—cold, merciless, and gleaming with bloodlust. The corners of his lips curved into a cruel smile as his eyes locked on Jin, who had stumbled into view, breath ragged and garments torn from flight.
"Well, well," Feng murmured, drawing his long sword with deliberate slowness. The steel whispered as it left the scabbard, catching the wan light of dusk. "We scoured mountain and vale for you, and here you come crawling to us. This time…" His voice dropped to a rasp of promised death. "Let us see who dares intervene."
At his side stood Lü Yan Zhenren—the tall, austere Daoist once known to Jin as Lü Yuanzi. Where Feng radiated vicious hunger, Lü Yan was the very opposite: still as stone, his long face unreadable, his eyes fathomless pools that offered no hint of favor or enmity. He did not reach for a weapon, but Jin felt more threatened by that calm gaze than by Feng's naked blade.
Jin's heart sank like a stone into the depths of an abyss.
Before him stood two figures he could least afford to face—one a rival who longed for his death, the other a master whose scrutiny could pierce through every pretense. Behind him, hidden somewhere among the trees, lingered those gray-clad assassins who had claimed Zilan as "theirs." He was the prey, hemmed in from every side.
So this is it, he thought bitterly. No caves to vanish into. No allies to stumble upon. No tricks left to play.
The weight of exhaustion pressed on his shoulders. The half-pellet of "凝元丹" still pulsed faintly within his body, knitting torn flesh and mending strained meridians, but it was not enough. His strength was half-restored, not whole. Against Feng alone he might have fought a desperate battle; against both men, escape seemed less likely than survival in a storm of blades.
Yet surrender was not in Jin's nature. He tightened his grip on his long knife, its edge dulled from weeks of use yet still serviceable. His eyes narrowed, hard as flint.
"Feng Tianyu," he said, forcing his voice steady, "you've chased me across cities and mountains. Do you truly fear me so much that you must hound me to the very ends of the earth?"
Feng laughed—a harsh, mirthless sound. "Fear you? No, Jin. I hunt you as one hunts a rabid dog. To let you live is to invite plague. Better to end you now, and be rid of the stench you bring."
The words were venom, but Jin heard the truth beneath them: Feng's hatred ran deeper than rivalry. It was obsession. He would never rest until Jin lay broken at his feet.
Lü Yan Zhenren's gaze shifted slightly, measuring Jin with the same calm intensity a scholar might devote to an ancient scroll. At last he spoke, his voice even, almost detached:
"Your presence here is curious. Not long ago, others searched these hills for a girl who bears a name tied to death and deceit. Now you cross paths with assassins steeped in corpse-aura. And yet you stand before us, alive."
The Daoist's eyes sharpened. "Tell me, Jin—what have you become entangled in?"
Jin's throat tightened. Lü Yan's tone was not that of a man rushing to kill; it was the voice of judgment, of inquiry, perhaps even temptation. But to answer truthfully was impossible—too many secrets, too many shadows. To lie would be more dangerous still.
He remained silent, watching them both.
The silence stretched, broken only by the rustle of wind through pine needles.
Then Feng took a step forward, sword lifting. His killing intent spilled like icy water, drowning the clearing. "Enough talk. Whatever schemes he weaves, whatever tales he tells—you know as well as I do, Master Lü, that this wretch deserves no mercy."
The Daoist did not answer. His hands remained folded within his sleeves, his eyes never leaving Jin. The air between the three of them grew taut, like the drawn string of a bow ready to snap.
Jin could feel his pulse thunder in his ears. He shifted slightly, centering his stance. If he had to die here, it would be with his blade moving, not with his head bowed.
But then, from the forest's edge, there came a distant cry—raw, harsh, and inhuman. The sound cut through the tension like a jagged blade. It was a cry Jin knew too well: the wail of his corpse-servants, those grotesque guardians that trailed him night after night.
Both Feng and Lü Yan turned their heads toward the sound.
Jin seized the moment. His muscles coiled, and in the heartbeat of distraction, he hurled himself sideways into the undergrowth. Branches whipped against his face, thorns tore at his arms, but he did not slow. Behind him came the clang of steel, the rush of pursuit.
Perhaps he had no future but death. Perhaps escape was only another kind of grave. Yet as his lungs burned and his legs carried him deeper into the shadowed forest, a single thought blazed in his mind:
While breath remains, I will not fall.