The sky over Shiqiao Village never looked far.
It hung low, bruised with cloud, pressed down by the ridge of Blackridge Mountain as if the mountain could bite through it if it wished. Most days the villagers glanced at the peak, spat once, and went back to work. Mountains meant beasts. Beasts meant death. Death was a tax that arrived without warning.
Lin Wuchen carried water for the tax collector's man.
Not because he owed money. He owed existence.
He was seventeen, thin from seasons where the rice bowl stayed half full, and old enough to know which adults smiled with teeth and which smiled with knives. Today the collector's man was smiling too much.
"Faster," the man said without turning his head. His robe was gray and clean, a robe a village didn't deserve. On his belt hung a short blade with a lacquered sheath. Not a treasure. Just enough to make the village head bow.
Wuchen shifted the bucket pole on his shoulder and walked faster, careful not to splash. Water cost less than blood, but not much less when a cultivator was watching.
They reached the village square where the stone bridge gave Shiqiao its name. The bridge arched over a narrow stream, and under it the water ran shallow and cold. On the far bank stood the village head, three elders, and a crowd of villagers pressed in a tight half-circle.
In the center, kneeling on the dirt, was a boy Wuchen recognized.
Huang San. Fifteen. Loud mouth. Fast hands. The kind who stole eggs and thought he was clever until he got caught.
Huang San's face was swollen.
The collector's man stepped forward, gray robe floating over the dirt like he didn't belong to the same world. He lifted a hand, palm down, and the crowd quieted instantly.
That was the first thing Wuchen noticed.
Not the robe. Not the blade.
The quiet.
It wasn't fear of a knife. It was fear of a weight that wasn't visible.
The village head bowed until his back rounded. "Honored Elder Brother," he said, voice trembling with forced respect, "this child has already confessed. We will repay—"
"Repay with what?" the gray-robed man asked. His voice was mild, almost bored. "Your village pays with grain. The sect pays with blood. Do you think the Azure Fang Sect accepts eggs as tribute?"
Sect.
The word made several villagers inhale like they'd swallowed dust.
Wuchen kept his face blank and lowered his eyes. In Shiqiao Village, the Azure Fang Sect was spoken of the way hungry people spoke of meat. With awe, envy, and a hint of hatred.
They were not a great sect. Everyone knew that, at least the people who had traveled once beyond the ridge and come back poorer. But for a village like Shiqiao, even the lowest disciple of a low sect was a sky-high figure.
The gray-robed man turned his gaze to Huang San.
"What did you steal?" he asked.
Huang San's lips trembled. "I… I only took a pouch," he whispered. "I didn't know. I swear I didn't know."
The gray-robed man crouched, close enough that Huang San's breath hit his sleeve. "What was in it?" he asked softly.
Huang San swallowed. "A pill," he whispered. "A… a red pill. I thought it was candy. I—"
The gray-robed man stood.
Wuchen saw the village head's shoulders tighten with relief, as if he thought a confession would end it. Wuchen didn't share that relief. Confession only gave a cultivator a reason to punish without paperwork.
The gray-robed man flicked his sleeve.
He didn't strike Huang San with his hand. He struck him with air.
A sound like a wet cloth snapping.
Huang San's body slammed sideways into the dirt and rolled until he hit the base of the stone bridge. He coughed, and blood spotted the ground.
The crowd flinched as one.
Wuchen kept his expression dull. Inside, he counted.
One strike. No blade. No fist. Just a sleeve.
That was power.
Not the kind that made you brave. The kind that made you careful.
The gray-robed man looked down at Huang San, then at the village head.
"Azure Fang Sect is merciful," he said.
Wuchen almost laughed. He didn't. He kept his eyes lowered.
"Mercy," the man continued, "is expensive."
He pointed at Huang San's father, a broad-shouldered farmer with cracked hands. "You," he said. "One finger."
The farmer's face went white. "Honored—"
"One finger," the gray-robed man repeated, still mild. "Or your son goes to the sect to repay his debt."
The villagers murmured. Someone sobbed quietly.
Wuchen watched Huang San's father's hands shake.
Debt to the sect wasn't only money. It was bodies. A boy taken to the sect might become an outer disciple if he survived. More often he became a servant, a pack mule, or a furnace for someone else's cultivation. People didn't say those words in public. They just said, "He went up the mountain."
Huang San's father looked at his son, then at the gray-robed man, then at the village head who couldn't help him. Slowly, he reached for the sickle at his waist.
Wuchen's gaze slid away. Not because he was kind. Because watching was pointless and dangerous.
A commotion rippled near the back of the crowd.
A thin old man pushed forward, leaning on a staff. His hair was white and sparse, his robe patched, his eyes sharp. Wuchen knew him: Old Gao, the village's so-called healer, the man who sold bitter herbs and told stories about cultivators he'd never met.
Old Gao bowed to the gray-robed man. "Honored Elder Brother," he said, voice steady, "this village is poor. Cutting a finger will ruin a family. Please… allow an alternative."
The gray-robed man's eyes narrowed slightly. "Alternative?" he asked.
Old Gao lifted his staff and pointed at the ridge of Blackridge Mountain. "There is a beast path," he said. "A narrow ravine where a Blackridge Horned Boar sometimes appears. Its tusk contains essence. Worth a pill. If the boy's family offers a tusk, would the sect accept it as repayment?"
The villagers gasped. Someone muttered a prayer.
The gray-robed man looked amused. "You want peasants to hunt a spirit beast?" he asked.
Old Gao lowered his head. "Not peasants," he said. "The orphan."
Silence.
Wuchen felt the crowd's gaze swing toward him like a door slamming shut.
He didn't move. He kept holding the bucket pole, shoulders slumped slightly, letting his body look smaller than it was. A habit learned early. If a wolf didn't notice you, it didn't bite you.
Old Gao continued, "Lin Wuchen is quick. He knows the mountain paths. He has no family to lose."
Wuchen's jaw tightened. He kept it hidden.
Old Gao was not helping him. Old Gao was trading him.
The gray-robed man turned his gaze to Wuchen fully now. He studied Wuchen's thin arms, his worn shoes, the water stains on his sleeves.
"A boar tusk," the man said slowly. "If you bring me a boar tusk by sunset tomorrow, the debt is repaid. If you fail…"
He let the sentence hang, then smiled faintly.
"…then you will come to Azure Fang Sect instead. Either way, the sect is paid."
Wuchen lifted his eyes for the first time.
Not in defiance. In calculation.
He looked at Huang San bleeding near the bridge. He looked at Huang San's father gripping the sickle with shaking fingers. He looked at Old Gao, whose eyes didn't meet his.
He looked at the ridge of Blackridge Mountain.
Then he bowed.
Low. Proper. The kind of bow that kept you alive.
"This one understands," Wuchen said.
The gray-robed man nodded like he'd been offered a gift. He turned away and walked toward the village head. "Prepare the tribute," he said. "And prepare a cart. If the orphan fails, I will take him in the morning."
Wuchen stood straight again, water pole still on his shoulder, face empty.
Inside, his mind moved fast.
A horned boar was not a rabbit. Blackridge beasts killed men for sport. And a "spirit beast" was worse. Not because it was magical. Because it was strong, and strength didn't care about your plans.
But Wuchen also knew something else.
The gray-robed man had called the pill Bronze Body.
That meant the man wasn't high realm. He was still close enough to the village to bother collecting.
Which meant the boar they wanted was likely not a king beast either.
Likely.
Wuchen could work with likely.
The crowd began to loosen. People whispered. Huang San's mother crawled toward her son. Huang San's father sank to his knees, sickle slipping from numb fingers.
Old Gao shuffled toward Wuchen like a man approaching a tool he'd just lent out. "Wuchen," he said softly, "I—"
Wuchen didn't let him finish. He smiled faintly, not warm, not angry. Just a small twist of mouth that made him look obedient.
"This one will go," Wuchen said.
Old Gao's shoulders eased, as if relieved.
Wuchen leaned closer, voice low enough that only Old Gao could hear.
"If I live," he said, "you will owe me."
Old Gao blinked. "What?"
Wuchen's smile didn't change. He straightened and walked away with the water pole still balanced on his shoulder, as if he were only going to fetch more water.
At the edge of the village, where the fields met the first line of pine trees, he stopped.
He looked back once at the stone bridge and the gray-robed man's clean robe.
Then he turned toward Blackridge Mountain.
He didn't pray.
He didn't swear.
He simply began to move, taking the path that hunters used when they wanted to come home alive.
Because tomorrow, by sunset, he needed a tusk.
Or he would become tribute.