"The forest does not forget sound. Even a whisper returns with teeth."
— Fragment recovered from the Fang Caves, author unknown
The forest slept uneasily.
Mist dragged along the valley like old breath, curling around trees that leaned like watchers. Every root and rock felt wet beneath Lin Wuji's bare feet. Dawn had barely broken, yet the pack was already moving — silent shapes against pale light. Fangxin led them from the mouth of the cave, his stride deliberate, heavy, and certain.
Wuji followed a few steps behind, flanked by Scar-Left and two younger wolves whose eyes flickered between awe and fear. The air smelled of rain and iron, faint traces of human smoke drifting from far off.
"This will be your first hunt alone," Fangxin said, not looking back. His voice came low, carrying beneath the breath of the wind. "A test of patience."
Wuji's chest tightened. "You want me to kill?"
"I want you to decide." Fangxin's gaze turned to the treeline. "The Silver Order travels close. A scouting pair. You'll find them before dusk. What happens after will tell me if you're still half-born."
Wuji said nothing.
Scar-Left gave a low chuckle, deep and cruel. "The Alpha measures hearts through blood. Careful, little brother — hesitation smells worse than fear."
"Enough," Fangxin growled, but not harshly. He stopped near a fallen tree, the ground there marked with deep gouges — old battle scars. "You'll go east. Follow the river bend. The forest favors silence; listen, and it will tell you when to move."
He stepped closer, lowering his massive head until his muzzle nearly brushed Wuji's shoulder. "Remember this, Lin Wuji. Killing is not the proof. Mercy is."
Then, without waiting for a reply, Fangxin turned and melted back into the trees, his presence fading like thunder that refused to strike.
The world became small once Fangxin was gone.
The forest pressed close, dripping with condensation and secrets. Wuji moved alone now, bare feet silent against wet moss. Every sense burned alive: the pulse of beetles beneath bark, the tang of river water, the distant flick of metal against cloth.
He slowed near a hollow slope and crouched low. Ahead, through branches, two figures moved carefully across the shallows of a creek. Silver Order scouts — cloaked, methodical, their movements practiced. Wuji could smell the oil on their weapons, the faint smoke of last night's fire.
They spoke softly in the old tongue of the Order. He could almost understand it — fragments of orders, complaints, fear.
"… Captain says they're too close," one whispered. "Three patrols gone in a week. Whatever's out here isn't just wolves."
"Then what?"
"I don't know. But it knows us."
Wuji's throat tightened. He recognized that tone — the same sharp fear he had once carried when he was still human.
He stayed hidden, fighting the instinct that surged through him — the urge to run, to pounce, to end. His fingers flexed in the dirt, nails biting into soil.
He could hear Fangxin's voice in his skull: Decide.
A drop of rain struck the leaves beside him. The scouts froze, glancing toward the sound. One raised his weapon. Wuji held his breath.
"Something moved," the man said.
"It's the fog."
"Fog doesn't watch you."
They turned toward his hiding place. The younger one hesitated, lowering his weapon slightly. For a moment, his eyes met Wuji's through the mist — not fear, not anger, just confusion.
And in that hesitation, Wuji moved.
He stepped into the open, unarmed, his posture low but not aggressive. The scouts flinched, hands gripping silver bolts.
"Stop," Wuji said, his voice rough from disuse.
"You'll die if you shoot."
The older scout sneered. "A wolf that speaks."
The younger hesitated again, eyes widening. "He's—he's not fully—"
"Load!"
The crossbow clicked. Wuji ducked instinctively, the bolt grazing his shoulder. Pain flared — a burning line that hissed under the skin. The scent of silver filled his nose like fire.
Rage answered the wound.
The beast inside him surged forward — hot, ancient, hungry. His fingers curved, nails splitting skin. For a heartbeat, his vision burned gold.
Decide, Fangxin's voice echoed again.
Wuji turned and ran.
He moved like smoke between trees, the forest swallowing him whole. Behind him, he heard confusion, shouts, the click of weapons. He didn't stop until the creek was a whisper behind him.
He dropped to his knees, gasping, pressing a hand to his wound. Silver had grazed deep enough to sting but not kill. The air smelled of rain again, clean and raw.
"I decided," he whispered to no one.
By dusk, he returned to the pack. Fangxin waited near the stone outcrop, standing as if carved from it. The others had gathered at a distance, silent.
"You didn't kill," Fangxin said.
"No."
"Why?"
Wuji met his gaze. "Because I didn't need to."
Fangxin's eyes gleamed faintly. "Then tell me — did they live because you spared them, or because you feared what killing would make of you?"
Wuji didn't answer. The Alpha stepped closer, nostrils flaring. He could smell the silver wound, faint but still burning.
"You were marked," Fangxin said. "They'll follow your blood now."
"I'll heal."
"You misunderstand." Fangxin's tone darkened. "They'll smell you for days. You've led them to us."
A murmur moved through the pack. Scar-Left rose, hackles twitching. "You brought their scent here?"
Wuji turned sharply. "I didn't mean—"
Fangxin lifted a paw, silencing him. "The moon sees every mistake," he said softly. "You'll fix this one before it rises again."
"How?"
"Lead them away. Let them chase you until they forget the scent of this place."
Scar-Left barked. "Exile him for his weakness!"
"Silence." Fangxin's growl shook the stones. He turned back to Wuji. "You want to be one of us? Then bear the weight your blood drags behind it."
Wuji bowed his head. "I will."
"Then go."
Night returned, heavy and silver. Wuji ran through it without pause, every step driving deeper into the wilderness. His wound throbbed, but his thoughts burned hotter. He could smell the Silver Order on the wind — faint, cautious, hunting him now.
He knew Fangxin had sent him as bait. A test, yes. But also a trap.
Still, he ran.
He had chosen not to kill — and now he would pay for mercy with endurance.
Behind him, the forest shifted. Distant howls answered the wind — not his pack's. Different voices, old and cold, drawn by blood.
The night seemed to lean closer, listening.
Far to the south, Captain Elira knelt by the same creek where Wuji had first spared the scouts. She studied the shallow prints, the claw marks beside them — too deliberate, too controlled.
"He could have killed them," she murmured.
Garran frowned. "Then why didn't he?"
Elira's eyes traced the fading tracks. "Because something in him still remembers how to stop."
She rose, wiping mud from her gloves. "But something else…" She looked toward the north, where the wind carried faint echoes of howls. "…is learning how to begin."