The morning sun had not yet crested the ridge when two riders cut through the mist.
Wen's horse galloped hard, hooves hammering the earth in a rhythm that matched the pounding in his chest. Ji'an followed close behind, his expression unusually grim.
The messenger hawk had arrived before dawn — its left talon bound with a crimson-threaded scroll.
Only six words written in sharp, hurried strokes:
"An incident. Li Rong missing. Hurry."
Since then, Wen had not spoken a single word.
The wind whipped through his hair, stinging his eyes, but he didn't blink. His jaw was locked so tight that a vein pulsed visibly at his temple. Ji'an had ridden beside him for years, through war and bloodshed, but never had he seen this look on Wen's face — cold enough to freeze the morning air itself.
"Wen," Ji'an began cautiously, voice low, "it might not be—"
"Don't."
The word was sharp, final. Wen didn't slow.
Ji'an fell silent, but unease prickled at the back of his neck. The valley road was too quiet — no merchants, no bird cries, not even the rustle of distant carts. It was as if the world held its breath, waiting for something terrible to unfold.
They reached the first fork where the trees thickened, the path narrowing into a corridor of shadow. Ji'an watched as Wen's knuckles tighten on the reins, his voice softer this time.
"Maybe he's fine, Wen. Maybe it's—"
"If he's fine," Wen interrupted, his voice almost breaking, "then I'll thank every god in the sky. But if he's not…"
The sentence hung unfinished, dissolving into the cold air.
Ji'an didn't press further. There was no need. The look in Wen's eyes already said enough — it was the same look he'd worn years ago when soldiers under his command were ambushed. The same fire of guilt and fury that could burn through an army.
....
By the time they reached the town, the sun was high — but the inn stood cloaked in shadow.
A small crowd had gathered outside, murmuring in hushed tones. Guards from the Wen manor had cordoned off the area, their faces pale. The innkeeper rushed forward, wringing his hands, his eyes wide with fear.
"G-General Wen! Forgive me—I—I didn't know—"
"Where is he?" Wen's voice was like steel scraping stone.
"T-the room upstairs, sir. It was locked from the inside but—when we entered this morning, he was gone. Only the note left behind." The old man trembled. "There was no sound, no struggle…"
Wen didn't wait. He pushed past the guards and climbed the stairs two at a time. The wooden steps groaned under his boots.
When he entered the room, time seemed to still.
The faint scent of Li Rong's tea still lingered in the air — green plum and honey. The inkstone on the table was half-used, brush lying crookedly beside an unfinished letter. The bed was neatly made, as though untouched. The window curtains fluttered gently, letting a sliver of sunlight fall across the floorboards.
And there — near the door — faint white powder dusted the ground. Wen knelt, rubbed it between his fingers, then brought it close to his nose.
His expression darkened.
"Soporific herbs," he muttered. "Refined… deliberately burned."
Ji'an crouched beside him. "So it was planned. Not a robbery."
Wen's gaze swept the room — the overturned chair, the faint drag marks near the threshold. Everything pointed to precision. No noise. No witnesses.
He turned to the table where a folded parchment lay. The wax seal was dark red — the color of dried blood. Etched into the surface was a small insignia: a coiled serpent encircling a blade.
Wen froze.
That mark.
He had seen it once before — months ago, carved into the dagger of the assassin who tried to kill Li Rong.
Ji'an's eyes widened. "The same emblem…it's them."
Wen's hand trembled as he broke the seal and read.
"If you want him safe, bring what we need.
You know what it is."
The parchment slipped from his hand, fluttering to the floor.
For the first time since Ji'an had known him, Wen didn't move, didn't speak. His breath came shallow, his eyes unreadable — but the silence in the room felt like the calm before a storm that could swallow cities whole.
---
Downstairs, Wen sat at the inn's long table, the note between his fingers. Ji'an poured him tea, but it remained untouched.
Ji'an finally broke the silence. "That line — 'you know what it is.' They're taunting you. They wanted that...."
Wen's jaw clenched. "The box.My ancestors secret."
Ji'an's eyes flickered with recognition. "…The one your grandfather gave you before he died? "
A slow nod.
"That box was sealed," Ji'an said quietly. "He told us never to open it. That it contained something tied to the Wen bloodline — something the world mustn't see."
"Then they know," Wen said, his voice low and steady, though his eyes burned. "They knew enough to go after Li Rong to get to me."
Ji'an exhaled sharply, leaning back. "First your grandfather… now him. Whoever these people are, they're not just thieves. They're hunting for something ancient."
Wen rose abruptly, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles blanched white.
"Then I'll stop them."
"Wen—"
He turned, fury and anguish warring in his gaze. "He's my family, Ji'an. I don't care what's in that damned box or what secrets the Wens are built on. They touched him—and I'll make them regret it."
For a long moment, the two men just stood there, the silence thick between them. Then Ji'an sighed and nodded.
"Then we prepare," he said simply. "No rash moves. You can't face this alone."
---
Night fell. The manor was bathed in candlelight, but Wen's chambers remained dark.
He sat alone, the box resting on the table before him — the same one his grandfather had pressed into his hands years ago, sealed with an ancient crest. The weight of it felt heavier than any weapon he'd ever carried.
His reflection flickered in the lacquered wood. For a long while, he just stared, remembering.
Li Rong's quiet laughter when they first tested the fruit wine.
His stubborn pout when Wen teased him for overworking.
The way his voice softened when he said his name — Wen.
The sound now echoed like a ghost.
He trusted me, Wen thought. And I left him unguarded.
He pressed a hand to his eyes. His voice trembled, barely audible.
"I'll bring you back, Rong. Even if I have to burn through every shadow between us."
Ji'an stood by the door, silent witness to his commander's rare vulnerability. When Wen finally lifted his gaze, the storm behind his calm had hardened into resolve.
"Gather the old unit," he ordered. "The ones from my western campaign. I only trust them."
Ji'an nodded, understanding. "And the business?"
"Transfer everything to them and the military power to Deputy General Zhou. If We don't return—"
"Don't say that," Ji'an snapped. "We will return."
Wen didn't answer. He only looked back at the sealed box, eyes unreadable. "We leave before dawn."
---
Three days later, preparations were complete.
By the fourth night, a black-feathered bird flew through Wen's window, its leg tied with a strip of parchment.
Only one sentence scrawled upon it:
"Bring the box to Mount Qiluo. Come alone."
Ji'an frowned. "Mount Qiluo… that place's been abandoned for years. Locals say it's cursed."
Wen fastened the box beneath his cloak, his expression unreadable. "Then we'll see how deep the curse runs."
The two men departed before sunrise.
No banners, no guards — only the sound of hooves and the whisper of wind through the barren trees. Wen wore the small pendant Li Rong once repaired for him; it hung close to his heart, warm against his chest. Every beat reminded him of what he was fighting for.
As they crested the hill, Wen glanced back once — the manor lights a faint glow in the distance.
"Wait for me, Rong," he whispered. "This world isn't done with us yet."
------
Darkness.
A faint rocking motion beneath him. The sound of wheels grinding over uneven ground. His wrists ached; when he moved, chains rattled softly.
Li Rong's eyes fluttered open, vision hazy. The air was thick with the scent of old leather and herbs. Across from him, two figures spoke in low tones.
"…the key to longevity," one murmured. "Master Shen said that."
"Are you sure about it ?" another asked. "What if the Wen boy brings the wrong thing?"
"Then both die," came the cold reply.
Li Rong's head throbbed. The voices blurred.
He tried to lift his hands, but the iron bit into his skin. The world swayed, tilted — and through the fog, one thought pierced the haze like a flame refusing to die.
Wen… you'll come, won't you?
The corner of his lips twitched, almost a smile, before darkness swallowed him again.
---