The forest thinned into a rocky scrubland scarred by wagon wheels and the heavy tread of beasts. Blackwater Crossing lay ahead, a collection of rot-wood shacks huddled around a bridge that spanned a churning, mud-choked river.
Yang Yi kept his head down. The hood of his stolen cloak cast a shadow over his eyes. He didn't look like a threat. He looked like a refugee, another piece of debris washed up by the chaotic tides of the sects.
He smelled the blood before he saw it.
Two men guarded the bridge. They wore the azure silk of the Python Sect, stark and clean against the filth of the crossing. A peasant cart lay overturned nearby, its owner face down in the mud, a spear shaft protruding from his back.
One guard leaned against the railing, picking his teeth with a splinter of wood. He eyed Yang Yi's approach.
"Halt."
Yang Yi stopped. He let his shoulders slump, projecting exhaustion. He kept his hands visible, empty. The dagger remained tucked in his boot.
The guard spat the splinter onto the ground. "Toll is five copper bits. Or a pound of beast meat."
"I have neither."
The second guard stepped away from the corpse. He was bigger, his neck thick with muscle, a heavy dao resting on his shoulder. He grinned, revealing teeth stained red from betel nut.
"No coin? Then you pay with service. The mines need diggers. Step over there with the others."
He pointed his chin toward a pen made of sharpened stakes. A dozen hollow-eyed figures huddled inside, shivering in the damp wind.
Yang Yi didn't move. "I have a schedule to keep."
The first guard laughed. A dry, rasping sound. "Did you hear that, Liu? The rat has a schedule."
Liu dropped the dao into a ready position. The heavy steel clanked against his thigh armor. "The schedule changed. Get in the pen, or join the old man in the mud."
Yang Yi measured the distance. Ten feet. Two opponents. Tier 2 Coagulation, maybe early Tier 3. Stronger than the thug in the woods, but their footwork was sloppy. They relied on the fear their sect commanded, not their own skill.
"I'll ask once. Move."
Liu's grin vanished. "Cut his legs. He can dig from his knees."
The guard on the rail drew a short sword. He lunged, a lazy thrust aimed at Yang Yi's thigh.
Yang Yi didn't retreat. He stepped forward.
His left hand knocked the sword arm wide. His right hand formed a blade, fingers rigid as iron, and struck the guard's throat.
Trachea collapsed.
The guard dropped his weapon, clutching his neck. He made a wet, gurgling sound and fell to his knees, eyes bulging.
Liu roared. The heavy dao swept down, a cleaving strike meant to split Yang Yi from shoulder to hip.
Yang Yi sidestepped. The wind of the blade brushed his cheek. The dao smashed into the wooden planks of the bridge, biting deep and sticking fast.
Liu tugged at the handle, panic flaring in his eyes.
Yang Yi grabbed the guard's wrist and stomped on the man's knee.
Bone snapped.
Liu screamed. He released the weapon, crumbling to the ground.
Yang Yi picked up the fallen short sword. He didn't look at the man choking on the ground. He looked at Liu.
"Who runs the Dragon Transformation Palace?"
Liu gasped, clutching his shattered knee. Tears streamed down his face. "The... The Elders. The Three Clans."
"And the selection?"
"Starts... in three days. The gates... close at sundown tomorrow."
Yang Yi weighed the sword. Good balance. Better steel than the rusted dagger in his boot.
"Three days."
He swung the sword. A clean, efficient arc. Liu's screaming stopped.
Yang Yi wiped the blade on the dead man's silk robe. He walked to the pen of prisoners. They stared at him, terrifyingly silent, their hope long since beaten out of them.
He sliced the rope binding the gate.
"Run."
He didn't wait for their gratitude. He didn't care for it. He sheathed the sword and crossed the bridge, his boots thumping a steady rhythm on the bloodstained wood. The Dragon Transformation Palace awaited, and he was already late.