Consciousness returned with pain.
Not the dull, manageable ache Zhung had grown accustomed to over the past week, but sharp, immediate agony that made his eyes snap open and his breath catch in his throat.
The abandoned building was no longer dark—pale morning light filtered through broken windows, illuminating the squalor around him in unforgiving detail.
And standing in the doorway, silhouetted against that light, was a figure wearing Lu family colors.
*Found me,* Zhung's mind registered with cold clarity despite the pain. *While I was unconscious. While I was vulnerable. They found me.*
The guard stepped forward, his expression showing satisfaction mixed with wariness—the look of someone who'd just located valuable prey but remembered that prey was dangerous.
"There you are," the guard said, his voice carrying across the small space. "The boy with a thousand gold on his head. Been searching all night for you."
He raised his hand to his mouth, preparing to blow a whistle that would summon reinforcements.
Zhung moved.
His body protested violently—broken ribs grinding, shoulder screaming around the embedded arrow, muscles that had been pushed beyond endurance now being asked for yet another impossible effort. But he moved anyway, because staying meant capture and capture meant the end of everything.
His right hand found a broken piece of furniture—a chair leg, heavy enough to be a weapon—and threw it with desperate accuracy.
The improvised projectile struck the guard's hand just as he raised the whistle to his lips, knocking the instrument away, buying precious seconds.
Zhung was already moving toward the back of the building, toward a window he'd noted in his brief exploration before collapsing.
The guard recovered quickly, drawing his sword, shouting: "HE'S HERE! THE ABANDONED BUILDING ON—"
Zhung crashed through the window, broken glass cutting his arms and face, his body falling eight feet to the alley below, landing hard on packed dirt that drove the air from his lungs.
He forced himself to stand, to run, ignoring the new injuries adding to his catalog of damage.
Behind him, the guard was already exiting the building, whistle blowing in sharp, urgent bursts.
*They'll converge. Within minutes, this entire district will be swarming with guards and mercenaries. Need to move. Need to get out of the slums before they seal off all exits.*
Zhung ran through the morning slums, his feet finding purchase on uneven ground, his smaller size and desperation giving him advantage over armored pursuers.
But the whistle had done its work.
From multiple directions, he heard responding shouts, saw guards emerging from buildings where they'd been searching through the night, their coordination impressive and terrifying.
"THERE! HEADING SOUTH!"
"CUT HIM OFF! DON'T LET HIM REACH THE WALL!"
*They're herding me,* Zhung realized with cold dread. *Coordinating positions to drive me toward specific areas. This isn't random pursuit—this is tactical encirclement.*
*Wei Shao's training. Professional manhunt techniques. They're treating me like a dangerous animal that needs to be trapped rather than simply chased.*
*I'm not going to escape through normal means. Not injured like this. Not against this many coordinated opponents.*
*Need a different approach. Something they won't expect.*
His eyes tracked the city around him even while running—noting the buildings, the streets, the gradual slope of the land.
*Crimson Vale is built in a valley. The slums are on the southern edge where the valley rises toward the mountains. If I can reach higher ground, reach the actual mountainside, the terrain becomes too difficult for coordinated pursuit.*
*It's a desperate plan. Probably suicidal. But better odds than staying in the city where they control the environment.*
Zhung changed direction, heading not deeper into the slums but toward their southern boundary—toward where the buildings gave way to wilderness and the mountains began their ascent.
The guards noticed the change immediately:
"HE'S HEADING FOR THE MOUNTAINS! INTERCEPT!"
"WE CAN'T LET HIM REACH ROUGH TERRAIN! CLOSE THE GAP!"
But Zhung's desperation gave him speed the guards couldn't match. His smaller size let him squeeze through gaps they had to go around. His injuries—which should have slowed him—instead fueled his movement through sheer survival instinct overriding pain.
He reached the city's southern edge, where the last ramshackle buildings gave way to wild forest, where the valley floor began its transformation into mountainside.
And he kept running.
Into the forest, between trees, up the gradually steepening slope, his lungs burning and his vision swimming but his legs still moving because stopping meant death.
Behind him, the pursuit continued—guards less coordinated now in rough terrain, their armor becoming liability rather than protection, their numbers spreading out as the forest forced single-file movement.
But they were still following. Still shouting coordinates. Still determined to collect their thousand-gold prize.
Zhung climbed higher, his hands finding purchase on rocks and roots, his body moving with mechanical efficiency even as his mind began to detach from the pain.
*This is what survival looks like,* his thoughts observed with eerie calm. *Running injured through mountains, pursued by people who want you dead or captured, body failing but mind refusing to surrender.*
*This is what being human costs. What staying moral requires. What refusing to be a weapon demands.*
*And I accept it. Even now, even dying, I accept it.*
*Better to die free and human than to live as Li Huang's perfect tool.*
The slope became steeper, the forest denser, the sounds of pursuit growing more distant as guards struggled with terrain they weren't equipped for.
But some were still following—the most determined, the most capable, the ones who saw a thousand gold and decided no amount of difficulty was too much.
Zhung could hear them behind him, perhaps four or five still maintaining pursuit despite the challenges.
He climbed higher, his fingers bleeding from gripping sharp rocks, his knees scraped raw from crawling over difficult sections, his entire body a symphony of agony that he'd learned to tune out through sheer necessity.
Then the trees began to thin.
The slope became rocky rather than forested.
And Zhung emerged onto a section of mountainside that was more cliff than climbable terrain—a narrow ledge perhaps ten feet wide, with sheer rock wall to his left and a drop to his right that fell away into green abyss.
*Dead end,* his mind recognized with strange calm. *Literally. Can't climb higher without equipment. Can't go back without running into pursuit. Can only go forward along this ledge until it ends.*
*This is where it finishes. One way or another.*
He walked forward along the ledge, his feet finding careful placement, his breathing labored and wet-sounding.
Behind him, he heard the guards emerging from the forest, their voices carrying across the mountainside:
"THERE! ON THE LEDGE! WE HAVE HIM CORNERED!"
Four guards appeared at the ledge entrance—professional mercenaries rather than city watchmen, their armor and weapons suggesting experience with difficult pursuits. One carried a bow, already nocking an arrow.
They advanced along the ledge with careful steps, weapons drawn, expressions showing grim satisfaction.
"Nowhere left to run, boy," the lead guard called out. "Surrender now and we'll make sure you survive long enough for proper interrogation. Resist and we'll take you dead instead. Either way, we collect the bounty."
Zhung continued walking backward along the ledge, maintaining distance, his dark eyes tracking the guards with analytical precision despite his deteriorating condition.
His shoulder was aching—not just from the embedded arrow that had been there for days, but throbbing with infection and blood loss. His left side burned where broken ribs had punctured tissue. His entire body was failing, systems shutting down from accumulated damage and exhaustion.
*I should be dead already. The fact that I'm still standing is anomaly rather than expected outcome.*
*But I am standing. Still moving. Still fighting.*
*That counts for something.*
The ledge continued narrowing behind him, the cliff edge drawing closer to the rock wall, until he had perhaps three feet of space to maneuver.
Then the ledge ended completely.
Zhung's back foot found empty air, and he stopped, turning slightly to look.
The cliff dropped away behind him—a sheer fall of at least two hundred feet into a valley filled with dense forest canopy, green trees swaying in the morning breeze, beautiful and deadly in equal measure.
*The abyss,* he thought with dark amusement. *Literal this time, not metaphorical. The green abyss of trees and certain death.*
*Jump and die from the fall. Stay and die from the guards. Either way, this is the end.*
He turned back to face the four guards who were advancing carefully, the archer keeping his bow trained on Zhung, the others with swords ready.
"Last chance," the lead guard said. "Surrender. Drop any weapons. Put your hands behind your head. We'll secure you and get you medical treatment."
"Medical treatment before interrogation?" Zhung asked, his voice carrying despite his labored breathing. "How kind. Wei Shao must want me alive very badly."
"Wei Shao wants answers about who sent you. Who planned the assassination. Who supplied the poison. You're worth more alive than dead if you can provide that information."
"And if I can't? Or won't?"
The guard's expression hardened. "Then you're worth a thousand gold either way. Your choice whether you experience the interrogation or just die here."
Zhung's hand moved slowly toward his belt, where he still carried the small knife he'd taken from the clinic—a simple blade, barely longer than his palm, his last remaining weapon.
"Don't," the archer warned, his bow string creaking as he drew it tighter. "Drop the weapon or I put an arrow through your leg. Make you regret resisting."
Zhung's fingers closed around the knife's handle.
Then he smiled—a expression that showed too many teeth, his dark eyes blazing with something wild and free and completely unafraid.
"You know what I realized?" Zhung said, his voice carrying across the ledge with unexpected clarity. "Wei Shao made one critical mistake in all his perfect planning and coordination and systematic manhunt."
"What mistake?" the lead guard asked despite himself, drawn into the moment despite his professional training.
"He assumed I valued my own life more than my freedom," Zhung replied.
His arm moved—not toward the guards in suicidal attack, but in a precise throw honed by weeks of practice with bone shards and improvised weapons.
The knife flew from his hand with deadly accuracy.
It struck the archer in the throat, punching through soft tissue, severing arteries, the man's eyes going wide with shock as blood sprayed and his bow fell from nerveless fingers.
"SHOOT HIM!" the lead guard roared at the dying archer, but it was too late—the man was already collapsing, choking on his own blood.
The other guards rushed forward, abandoning caution for speed, desperate to reach Zhung before he could do anything else.
But Zhung was laughing—wild, uncontrolled laughter that echoed across the mountainside, disturbing birds from nearby trees.
"Tell Wei Shao," Zhung shouted, his voice carrying over the sound of his own laughter, "that his vengeance accomplished nothing! That we won despite his perfect trap! That Lu Shin is dying or dead while we escaped his justice!"
The guards were ten feet away now, closing fast.
Zhung's laughter grew louder, more manic, the sound of someone who'd recognized the absurdity of existence and found it hilarious rather than tragic.
"And tell him that I died free and human instead of becoming his trophy!"
A guard lunged, sword extended, trying to pin Zhung against the rock wall.
But Zhung stepped backward—not away from the blade, but toward the cliff edge, his heel finding the boundary between stone and empty air.
"BOY, NO—"
The dying archer's bow still lay on the ledge, and one of the other guards—thinking faster than the others—grabbed it, nocked the fallen man's arrow with fumbling hands, drew and released in one desperate motion.
The arrow flew true.
It struck Zhung in the left side of his stomach, punching through flesh and muscle, the force of impact driving him backward.
Off balance.
Off the ledge.
Into the abyss.
Zhung's laughter continued even as he fell—joyful and terrible and completely free.
His arms spread wide as if embracing the fall.
His dark eyes remained open, watching the sky recede as the green trees rushed up to meet him.
*This is freedom,* his final coherent thought observed. *Choosing how I die. Choosing defiance over surrender. Taking one of them with me before the end.*
*Jiangsu would approve. Would probably make some dark joke about the poetry of falling to death while laughing.*
*I stayed human to the end. Made stupid choices. Felt moral chains. Refused to be just a weapon.*
*That's worth something.*
*Maybe everything.*
The wind rushed past his face, cold and clean.
The world spun in beautiful chaos.
Green leaves filled his vision.
Then impact—multiple impacts as his body struck branches, bounced, struck again, the forest canopy breaking his fall in stages but not enough to save him.
The laughter stopped.
Silence claimed the mountainside except for the rustling of disturbed leaves settling back into place.
---
The guards stood at the cliff edge, looking down into the green abyss where the boy had disappeared.
"Is he dead?" one asked quietly.
"Has to be," the lead guard replied, his voice carrying certainty mixed with something like respect. "That fall, the injuries he already had, the arrow Torrin shot him with before going over... no one survives that."
They stood in silence for a long moment, processing what they'd witnessed.
"He killed Torrin," one guard said, his voice tight with suppressed anger. "Threw a knife from ten feet away while injured and exhausted and still hit a killing strike. That's... that shouldn't be possible."
"A lot about that boy shouldn't have been possible," the lead guard observed. "Sixteen years old. Survived an assassination attempt, capture, execution, escape, manhunt across multiple cities. Kept moving with injuries that should have killed him days ago. And when cornered, chose death while laughing rather than surrender."
He turned away from the cliff edge.
"We report to Wei Shao that his target is dead. Fell from this cliff after being struck by an arrow. Body is somewhere in that valley, probably broken beyond recognition. The bounty is forfeit because we can't produce the corpse, but at least the hunt is over."
"Wei Shao won't be satisfied without proof," another guard warned.
"Then Wei Shao can climb down into that valley himself and search through two hundred feet of dense forest for a broken body," the lead guard snapped. "I'm not risking my life for a bounty we can't collect anyway."
They began the descent back toward Crimson Vale, leaving the cliff edge empty except for wind and morning light and bloodstains where a boy had stood laughing before choosing to fall.
And one guard's corpse, throat opened by a knife throw that shouldn't have been possible, cooling in the mountain air as evidence that even cornered prey could still bite.
---
**One Week Later — Western Frontier Road**
A cart rolled steadily along the road leading back toward Li Huang's territory, wheels turning with rhythmic creaking, pulled by a tired donkey that had traveled far in recent weeks.
Hu sat at the front, controlling the reins with practiced efficiency, his expression distant and weary. His injuries had healed enough for travel, though he still moved with occasional stiffness that suggested ribs not quite mended.
Behind him, Bai sat upright for the first time in weeks, his pale skin showing more color, his golden eyes open and aware. The punctured lung had healed—slowly, painfully, but healed. He could breathe without blood filling his mouth. Could speak without gasping. Could function, though combat capability remained weeks away.
They traveled in silence, both lost in their own thoughts about the mission that had cost so much and accomplished its objective through methods neither had anticipated.
"Zhung is dead," Bai said finally, his voice still weak but carrying clearly in the quiet afternoon. "The reports were consistent. Multiple witnesses saw him fall from the cliff outside Crimson Vale. Wei Shao's people searched the valley for three days and found nothing, but that just means the forest is too dense to locate a body easily."
"I know," Hu replied, his voice rough with emotion he was trying to control. "I was there when the guards brought the news to the clinic. They seemed almost... respectful when they talked about him. Said he killed one of their own before going over the edge. Said he was laughing as he fell."
Bai's expression shifted slightly—something that might have been a smile if it wasn't so sad.
"Of course he was. That stubborn little monster wouldn't give them the satisfaction of dying afraid. Probably thought it was hilarious to choose his own death instead of letting them choose it for him."
"He saved us, you know," Hu said quietly. "Drew all their attention away from the clinic. Created enough chaos that I could talk my way out of custody. They were so focused on catching him that they barely questioned me after he ran."
"I know. That's what makes his death..." Bai paused, searching for words. "Meaningful. He could have escaped alone. Could have left us to face Wei Shao's interrogation. But he chose to help, even knowing it would probably get him killed."
Silence settled between them again, broken only by the cart wheels and the donkey's steady breathing.
"Li Jiangsu is gone too," Hu added after a while. "The driver. Used his final technique to save us, dissolved into shadow and decay. I never even saw his real face beneath that mask."
"He was Li Huang's son," Bai said quietly. "Illegitimate. An experiment. He gave Zhung his technique book before dying. Wanted someone to remember he existed."
"How do you know that?"
"Zhung told me. Before... before everything went wrong at the inn. He was processing Jiangsu's death. Trying to understand why people kept dying for him."
Hu's hands tightened on the reins.
"Two out of four survived. Fifty percent casualty rate. That's... acceptable by assassination standards. Good, even, considering how badly the mission went wrong."
"The mission succeeded," Bai corrected. "Lu Shin is in a coma, possibly dying. His organization is in chaos. Li Huang's objective was accomplished despite the trap, despite Wei Shao's perfect preparation, despite everything going catastrophically wrong."
He leaned back slightly, his golden eyes distant.
"We won. We completed an impossible assassination through methods no one anticipated. And two of us survived to report it."
"At the cost of two companions who deserved better," Hu said bitterly.
"Yes. At that cost."
They continued traveling as the sun descended toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold, the same colors Zhung had watched before his final flight.
"What do we tell Li Huang?" Hu asked finally. "About Jiangsu being his son? About how he died?"
"We tell him the truth," Bai replied firmly. "That his son, his experiment, his weapon died saving the team. Died accomplishing the mission. Died proving he was more than just a failed cultivation subject."
"He won't care. Li Huang doesn't care about anything except results and profit."
"Probably not. But we'll tell him anyway. Because Jiangsu deserves to have his story told, even if his father doesn't appreciate it."
Bai's expression hardened.
"And we tell him about Zhung. About how a sixteen-year-old completed the backup plan through methods we didn't anticipate. About how he poisoned the wine and killed dozens. About how he saved my life with a technique that shouldn't have worked. About how he died laughing while falling from a cliff rather than surrender to Wei Shao's justice."
"You think Li Huang will care about that either?"
"No. But we'll tell the story anyway. Because both of them earned that much. Earned being remembered as people instead of just casualties in mission reports."
The cart rolled on through the autumn evening, carrying two survivors toward debriefing and payment and the continuation of lives purchased with others' deaths.
Behind them, in Crimson Vale and the mountains beyond, two bodies lay unmourned except by the companions who'd known them briefly.
One had decayed into bones against a tree.
One had fallen into green forest and disappeared.
Both had died human despite everything trying to make them weapons.
Both had chosen meaning over mere survival.
And two survivors carried their stories forward into whatever came next, bearing witness to sacrifice and defiance and the terrible beauty of refusing to surrender even when death was certain.
The Western Frontier waited ahead.
Li Huang's compound with its walls and guards and the cold pragmatism of merchant-assassin operations.
Report. Payment. Rest. Then another mission, another target, another dance with death that might end differently or might end the same.
But for now, they traveled in silence, two broken men carrying the weight of two lost companions, heading home with success purchased in blood and sacrifice.
The autumn trees swayed in the evening breeze.
The sky darkened toward night.
And somewhere in a valley filled with green trees, leaves settled over broken things, hiding them from sight but not from memory.
The Broken Path continued forward.
But its travelers had changed.
And the cost of that continuation had been counted in lives that deserved better than the world had given them.
---
**End of Chapter 36**