Baili's hand was a claw of crackling energy, poised to crush Chubbs's windpipe with a focused blast of Shidow. The thief was pressed against the alley wall, eyes wide with pure terror.
"Wait," Lorel said, stepping forward. The word felt too loud in the tense silence. "Don't kill him."
Baili didn't look at her. "He's a street rat. Give me one reason."
"He might know things we don't," she said, the idea forming as she spoke it. "About this place. He could be useful."
Chubbs seized the thread like a lifeline. "Useful! Extremely! I know… I know how to get the Jade Medallion! For the Sky Ocean passage! Very secret!"
The killing intent in Baili's eyes sharpened into cold interest. His hand lowered a fraction. "The Sky Ocean? Speak."
Gasping in relief, Chubbs wiped his brow. "Right. So, back in the glorious old days, the greatest cultivator to ever live, The Golden Touch, he…" Chubbs's voice took on a wistful, admiring tone.
Lorel couldn't hold back a disbelieving laugh. "The Golden Touch? The legendary thief? The one who emptied the Feng family vaults three generations ago?"
Baili's sneer was venomous. "A criminal. A worm. The greatest was Immortal Jiang. A sovereign. Not a scavenger."
Chubbs's face fell. He mumbled, almost to himself, "Yeah, well… Jiang's dead now."
The air turned to stone.
Baili moved. There was no blur, just a sudden, impossible shift. He didn't grab Chubbs's throat; his hand closed a foot away from it, and the very air around Chubbs's neck compressed. It was Shidow manipulation turned into an invisible garrote. Chubbs's eyes bulged, his feet kicking uselessly as he was lifted an inch off the ground, a horrific, wet choking sound escaping him. Real, final fear filled his face.
"BAILI, STOP!" Lorel screamed, pulling at his rigid arm. "He's an idiot! He didn't mean it! LET HIM GO!"
For three endless seconds, Baili held the pressure, his gaze locked on the thief's purpling face. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he released it. Chubbs dropped like a sack, crumpling to the cobblestones, retching and clawing at his neck.
"Continue," Baili said, his voice quieter than the mountain wind and ten times colder. "And measure your next words like your last breath."
Trembling, Chubbs spoke to the ground. "The Golden Touch… the legendary figure… hid his greatest treasure before vanishing. Not coins. Something else. The map to it is held by a hermit in the crags above this town. That's the real draw here. That's the prize."
Lorel's confusion cleared, leaving a hollow understanding. So that's it. Not to find Gen. To find a map. A treasure. The calculation was so purely, coldly Baili.
"What kind of treasure?" she asked, curiosity stirring despite her disappointment.
Chubbs shrugged weakly, still massaging his throat. "Dunno. Stories say it's not a thing you hold. It's a… key. To a place."
Baili ignored the mystery. "The Jade Medallion. Why is it needed? How is it obtained?"
Seeing a narrow path to survival, Chubbs sat up. "The hermit won't see just anyone. You need a token. The medallion is that token. Issued by the… less official guild here. I know where. We should rest first. Talk plans."
Lorel, weary to her bones, nodded. "He's right. We need to stop."
Baili's lip curled. "Fine. He serves as guide and porter until his usefulness ends." He glared at Chubbs. "Run, and I will find you. The next conversation will be much shorter."
Chubbs shook his head so hard his jowls wobbled. "No running! I'd… I'd be honored to serve the lady!" He scrambled up and positioned himself slightly behind Lorel, as if using her as a shield from Baili's glare.
A strange, warm flicker stirred in Lorel's chest. It wasn't romance. It was recognition. He saw her, not just the shadow of her brother. She gave a small, hesitant nod.
They found an inn, The Granite Pillow, its common room thick with the smell of unwashed fur and ale. Using a sliver of their family wealth—a fact that hung between them, unspoken—Baili secured a private room.
That evening, Baili ate at the small table in stern silence. Lorel picked at her stew. Chubbs stood dutifully by the door, his stomach emitting a low, persistent symphony of grumbles.
When Baili finished and left without a word—off to train or to plot—Lorel looked at the forlorn figure by the door. "Sit," she said. "Eat."
Chubbs stared as if she'd offered him a live serpent. "My lady, I couldn't possibly—"
"I said sit."
He practically fell into the chair. He ate with a desperate, grateful fervor, stuffing two chunks of bread into his mouth at once. "Mmf… no one's ever… mmf… been kind," he managed around the mouthful, his eyes actually growing damp. "I want to give you a hug!"
Lorel recoiled with a startled laugh, shoving him back into his chair with a firm hand. "Absolutely not. Just eat."
He did. And she found, to her surprise, that she didn't mind his company. It was simple. He was scared, grateful, and had no hidden layers. After he'd cleaned every plate, she stood. "I'm going to train. Do not steal. Do not leave."
Chubbs nodded, his expression solemn. "On my honor. Which isn't worth a dried bean, but it's yours."
Alone in the room, the door unguarded, his pack at his feet, Chubbs had his perfect chance. He could vanish into Stonewatch's labyrinth and never be found.
He looked at the empty plates. He remembered her stepping in front of Baili's wrath. The firm "Sit. Eat." Not an order from a mistress to a servant, but a command from one person seeing another's need.
He sank back into the chair with a heavy sigh, a small, wondering smile touching his lips. "Nah," he muttered to the empty room. "Might be nice to stick with a decent sort for a bit." He grimaced, thinking of Baili's icy rage. "Well. With one decent sort, anyway."
---
In a quiet courtyard behind the inn, lit only by the cold light of the Blue Moon and a few distant lanterns, Lorel trained.
Her situation was unique, a quiet shame she carried. Her foundation, the Acupoint that had whispered to her first and most powerfully, was for the Third Wheel: Zhidow—Creation. It was a rare and subtle gift, one her family had seen as impractical, too abstract for immediate strength. So, they had suppressed it, forcing her primary cultivation along the conventional, physical path. Thus, she was a First Wheel cultivator, her measurable power rooted in Jingdao—Reinforcement, which was solid and respectable.
But the whisper of Creation never left. It was her secret language.
She centered herself, breathing slowly. In her mind's eye, she fashioned not a weapon, but a vessel. A concept. She raised her hands, palms upward.
From the space between them, light—not the gold of reinforcement, but a soft, spectral pink—began to weave itself. It spun and coalesced, forming a perfect, miniature Lantern. It hovered above her palms, casting a gentle, otherworldly glow that made the shadows in the courtyard seem deeper. This was her spell: The Unbound Lantern.
It was crude, a first attempt. But it was hers. A creation born not of tutelage, but of her own quiet, untested will.
With a thought, she sent it gliding forward. It wasn't fast. She focused, and a thin, vibrant beam of pink light lanced from its core, striking a training post. The wood didn't burn or crack. Where the light touched, the grain seemed to unweave for a fraction of a second, the space itself trembling, before snapping back. It was a tear in reality, minute and unstable.
She let the lantern dissolve with a sigh, sinking to her knees. The effort left her drenched in a cold sweat. Compared to Baili's surgically precise Cloud Juggernaut or Gen's overwhelming, physical power, it felt feeble. A pretty light show.
Burden, Baili's voice echoed in her mind.
She clenched her fists in the dirt. "Not forever," she whispered to the night, her voice firmer than the lantern's light had been. "I will work harder." The resolve was a new kind of warmth, kindled not by someone else's belief, but by her own refusal to accept the shadow as her only home.