The path downhill felt like walking on a blade slicked with oil.
The morning fog didn't lift. It thickened.
It packed itself into every crack of the mountain—stone steps, tree roots, cliff seams—until the world beyond ten feet dissolved into a shifting wall of gray. Moss on the stairs drank in the night dew and turned treacherous. Every step had to be tested with the toe first, weight transferred inch by inch, or risk sliding straight into the void.
Ji Bokchuan clung to the cliff face with his left hand, fingers hooked deep into cold, jagged rock. Wet grit crept beneath his nails. His right hand gripped a short blade in reverse—not for balance, but for whatever might be hiding inside fog this thick.
The old man with the Spider Lily's warning still rang inside his skull, sharp and poisonous:
Heavenly Astral Sect covert agents. One man. One woman. Late Nourishing Breath realm. They're on the ship. Waiting for you.
Each word pressed down like lead.
Everything had to be re-planned. Immediately.
The original plan had been almost naïve in its simplicity: gather the bamboo, slip back to the ship during the pre-departure chaos, return to the damp corner of the lower hold, and keep playing the role of a quiet teenager heading to Lizhou to visit distant relatives. Once the ship docked at Red Rock Harbor and the crowd surged, he'd vanish into it like a loach into mud.
That road was gone.
Now it ended in a guillotine.
Going back meant walking his own neck beneath the blade. Heavenly Astral Sect wasn't a group that asked questions. Their doctrine was simple: order above life. Anything anomalous was erased, clean and final.
But staying on Spiritwind Cliff wasn't safer.
The two from Azure Feather Pavilion had fled in disgrace, and they could return with reinforcements at any moment. Worse still was the cliff itself. Every day at noon, the Bone-Eroding Spirit Wind—stored overnight like a drawn bow—would cascade down from the summit. Flesh, bone, steel—it didn't matter. Even refined metal was shaved to dust. Protective qi at the Nourishing Breath realm was paper-thin against it.
The hour of Chen.
He needed an exit before then.
Ji Bokchuan stopped, pressing his back to the damp stone. His breath fogged and vanished at once. He closed his eyes—not to rest, but to empty his mind.
Three paths appeared. All of them stained red.
First: rope descent. Thirty zhang down to a quiet-looking cove halfway along the cliff. And then what? Swim? The Eastern Sea was full of currents and beasts. In his current state, that was suicide. Wait for a ship? Laughable.
Second: the mine tunnels. The abandoned web of shafts marked on Uncle Zhou's map. The notes in red ink were clear enough: multiple collapses, Bone-Eroding Wind leaks, suspected yin contamination. A gamble with terrible odds.
Third—
His eyes opened.
Go back to the ship.
But not as himself.
He crouched and drew out the three stalks of Wind-Singing Bamboo. The crystal-clear green sheen along their joints glowed softly, leaves edged in silver—genuine top-grade material. He then counted out the payment from the old man: three mid-grade spirit stones. Heavy. Real. Enough to buy years of survival for an ordinary rogue cultivator.
And the talisman.
Yellow paper. Vermilion script, old and twisted. Cool to the touch.
The World-Event Record stirred.
[Masking Sigil — Single Use]
Alters appearance, aura, and surface form. Duration: three hours.
Aftereffect: spiritual recovery reduced to a crawl for twelve hours.
A life-saving tool. Or a death warrant.
He tucked it away carefully, then took out the white jade vial of Wind-Stabilizing Pills. He split one cleanly in half. One half went under his tongue to dissolve slowly. The other was wrapped and hidden.
Prepared.
He descended back through the ventilation shaft, crossed the hanging platform, and retraced the slick mine path, silent as breath, until he reached the rocky shore near the docks.
From behind a barnacle-crusted boulder, he watched.
The Golden Abacus was still docked—but the gangplank was up. Deckhands were coiling ropes. The sailor with the blue-scale tattoo stood at the rail, speaking with two figures.
The middle-aged couple.
The woman stood with arms crossed, her cold presence cutting through the fog. The man leaned forward, gesturing sharply toward the island interior, impatience written into every motion.
They were searching.
For him.
The skiff had returned. Empty.
Then movement in the silverleaf bushes.
The couple emerged, half-carrying the young sword cultivator. His face was deathly pale, barely conscious, but his left hand clutched a bulging cloth bundle.
They reached the dock just as the gangplank dropped again.
The horn sounded.
Final departure.
Ji Bokchuan's heart stuttered.
Now? Use the talisman? Blend in?
No.
The talisman could change his face—but not his cultivation base, not the Dao-engraved resonance in his core, not the karmic mark from the Nether Illusion Palace. Heavenly Astral Sect wouldn't rely on eyesight alone.
Charging straight in was suicide.
He scanned the docks again.
And froze.
At the far western edge, half-hidden in reef shadows, lay another ship.
Twin masts. Hull painted the same dull gray-brown as the rocks. No flag. No markings. About ten zhang long. Five or six crew moved with quiet efficiency—trained, disciplined. Not fishermen.
The World-Event Record pulsed.
[High-Risk Target]
Suspected smuggling / reconnaissance vessel.
Contact not recommended.
High risk…
Ji Bokchuan smiled faintly.
Han Tie's drunken words echoed back to him:
Everyone rushes the bright road—and dies on the traps buried beneath it. But the alleys everyone avoids? Sometimes there's a dog hole leading straight out the back.
Heavenly Astral Sect would be watching the Golden Abacus like hawks.
They'd never imagine their prey jumping onto something far worse.
All in.
He moved.
Thirty zhang out, he slipped behind another boulder and studied the ship. Six men. Two guards by the hold entrance, curved blades at their waists. Eyes sharp. Nourishing Breath fourth layer at least.
Time was gone.
The Golden Abacus blew its horn again and began pulling away.
Ji Bokchuan crushed the talisman and bit down on the pill.
Then he fell out from cover, deliberately kicking loose a stone. He hit the shallow surf hard.
"Help—! Help me—!"
Gray mist swallowed him.
His body twisted and reshaped. A gaunt, forty-something man. Sallow skin. Twisted leg. Torn trousers soaked with blood that wasn't real.
The guards reacted instantly.
The leader came down. Seventh layer.
He inspected. Hands. Calluses.
"You're no fisherman."
Ji Bokchuan told the truth—wrapped in lies.
When the Golden Abacus vanished into fog, the man made his choice.
"Bring him aboard. We need a pathfinder."
The hold swallowed Ji Bokchuan whole.
Only when the door locked did he breathe again.
Step one—complete.
Then he heard the destination.
Thunder God Ruins.
The name struck like a hammer.
Coincidence?
Or had he just boarded a ship sailing straight into the center of every mystery chasing him?
The sea rocked the hold gently.
Ji Bokchuan leaned back into the shadows.
He had abandoned the safe road.
And stepped onto a darker one.
But maybe—just maybe—it was the only road that didn't end with his head on a block.