The carriage rolled steadily over the damp pine needles that carpeted the forest floor, the soft creak of its wooden wheels the only sound in the quiet bypass. The morning mist had thickened as they climbed higher into the southern ridges of the neutral mountain passes, wrapping the towering pine trees in a dense grey shroud. Behind them, the distant warning bells at the Green Bamboo Ridge Pass had finally faded, swallowed by the vastness of the mist-choked valleys.
Inside the carriage, the atmosphere was heavy with silent relief, yet laced with a persistent, underlying tension. Xiao Chuan sat near the door, his eyes fixed on the floorboards, his breathing shallow and disciplined as he maintained the breathing cycle Fang Lin had taught him. His knuckles were white against his knees, his small frame trembling slightly despite his effort to remain composed. Beside him, Hu Zi sat tense and quiet, his eyes wide as he peered through the wooden slats, his breath catching at every snap of a dry twig in the undergrowth. Auntie Mei rested her head against the wooden frame, cradling Er Ya, who had fallen back into a light, uneasy sleep, her small face damp with the cold moisture of the ridge. Uncle Zhang sat opposite them, his soot-stained, calloused hands resting on the handle of his forge hammer. His eyes were dark and serious, constantly watching the road, his broad chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths.
In the corner, Fang Lin sat perfectly still, his eyes closed. To any observer, he looked like a sickly mortal youth, pale and fragile, breathing with faint effort.
Internally, his parallel pathways still hummed with the quiet, green warmth of his Nether Life Spirit Qi. The micro-tears in his meridians were slowly knitting together under the steady flow of his body essence, but the deep aches in his shoulders and limbs remained. He could feel the progress—the cool vitality of the phantom body was gradually rebuilding his depleted reserves, but he was still a day away from being able to channel active Qi without risk. His active Qi output remained locked at exactly zero percent; forcing even a minor technique would rupture his mending pathways, causing permanent foundation damage. For now, he remained a passenger to the carriage's rhythm, letting the quiet green thread do its work in silence.
"The border county is behind us," Uncle Zhang muttered, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that barely carried over the creak of the wheels. "But the road ahead is not safe. The bounty information will have spread by now. Every rogue cultivator and sect scout in the southern hills might be looking for us."
"We keep moving," Fang Lin replied quietly, without opening his eyes. "No matter what happens, you are mortals. Let the driver do the talking. Do not release a single drop of Qi, and do not look the cultivators in the eye."
Xiao Chuan nodded silently, his fingers tightening on his coat. He had seen the absolute destruction of the Black Water Alliance branch. He knew that the world outside the mortal alleys was a brutal place where strength ruled, and he was determined to play his part perfectly.
The carriage continued to climb, the horses snorting as they pulled the heavy load up a narrow, rocky defile. The path was flanked by steep cliffs, the grey stone walls slick with moisture.
Suddenly, the carriage ground to a halt. The horses whinnied in panic, their hooves clattering against the wet stone.
"Who stands in the path?" the mortal driver's voice rose, trembling with sudden terror. "We are Star-River merchant travelers... carrying household goods..."
"Silence, mortal," a harsh, grating voice cut him off, carrying the unmistakable, heavy pressure of a cultivator.
Uncle Zhang's hand tightened on his forge hammer. Auntie Mei drew Er Ya closer to her chest, her face turning pale as she pressed her hand over the girl's mouth to prevent her from crying out. Hu Zi shrank back, his shoulders shaking, while Xiao Chuan forced himself to continue his breathing cycle, his eyes fixed on the carriage floor.
Fang Lin slowly opened his eyes. His gaze was calm, cold, and detached.
Through the gaps in the wooden slats, three figures could be seen blocking the narrow road. They were dressed in mismatched leather armor and grey robes, their bearing wild and aggressive. They did not belong to any major sect, but the spiritual fluctuations radiating from them were thick and chaotic. All three were Core Formation cultivators.
The leader was a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar stretching from his left ear to his throat, carrying a massive iron broadsword that rested on his shoulder. To his left stood a thin, rat-faced cultivator with twin daggers, and to his right was a stocky woman with a spiked steel mace. Their eyes were greedy, scanning the carriage with cold calculation.
"Cultivators," Uncle Zhang whispered, his voice tense. "They must have set up a blockade on this bypass to catch refugees."
"A mortal merchant carriage," the rat-faced cultivator sneered, stepping forward. "Traveling the bypass roads instead of the main pass. Very suspicious. Perhaps you are smuggling something valuable. Or perhaps you are carrying a guest."
The broad-shouldered leader stepped forward, his heavy iron broadsword scraping against the wet rocks. "All travelers must be inspected. Step out of the carriage."
Uncle Zhang looked at Fang Lin, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
Uncle Zhang pushed the wooden door open and stepped down onto the wet pine needles, his back bent, his shoulders slumping in the perfect imitation of a terrified mortal blacksmith. He bowed deeply, his hands shaking.
"Immortal masters, please," Uncle Zhang pleaded, his voice cracking with fear. "We are only humble blacksmiths and weavers fleeing the northern county's draft. We have no treasures, only our household tools and the children."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn leather pouch. With trembling fingers, he held it out. "This is our family's savings. Fifty silver coins and three low-grade spirit stones we managed to dig up from the old mines. We only ask for passage to the southern towns."
The rat-faced cultivator snatched the pouch, inspecting the bribe greedily. He pulled out the three low-grade spirit stones and laughed. "Three stones? You call this savings, old man?"
The leader did not laugh. He reached into his robe and pulled out a small, cracked copper sensing bead. He held it toward the carriage. The bead flared with a faint, pulsing yellow light, reacting to the low-grade spirit stones in the rat-faced cultivator's hand.
The leader frowned, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the interior of the carriage. He saw a pale, sickly youth resting in the corner, a middle-aged woman clutching a child, and two terrified boys. None of them showed any spiritual pathways or active Qi. Thanks to the Dark Flame Spirit's active mask, the sensing bead in his hand remained stable, showing no other fluctuations.
"Just mortal trash," the rat-faced cultivator spit. "But the carriage and horses are worth some silver. And we cannot have anyone reporting our position to the Heavenly Sword Lake scouts. If they find out we are robbing travelers on their territory, we will be skinned alive."
The broad-shouldered leader's expression hardened, his scarred neck tightening. "Kill the men. Take the woman and children to the southern slave markets. We leave no witnesses."
He raised his iron broadsword, the heavy blade gleaming in the grey mist. The stocky woman grinned, lifting her spiked steel mace, her yellow earth Qi beginning to coat the weapon in a heavy, suffocating pressure.
Inside the carriage, Fang Lin's eyes narrowed.
His meridians were dry, his parallel pathways aching. If he used his frost Qi or drew upon his dark techniques, the sudden surge of energy would shatter his mending pathways, causing permanent damage to his cultivation foundation. It was a risk he could not take.
But his soul was completely untouched by physical exhaustion.
Fang Lin's Peak-Solid Soul erupted.
Even without a single drop of Qi, his soul force was vast, deep, and lethal. In the quiet interior of the carriage, the air grew freezing cold. His dark pupils reflected a silent, silver light.
He unleashed the Soul Thrasher.
Two invisible, silent needles of pure soul force shot out from his eyes, piercing through the wooden slats of the carriage and striking the rat-faced cultivator and the stocky woman.
There was no sound, no flash of light, and no explosion of energy.
The rat-faced cultivator's sneer froze. His eyes rolled back, showing only the whites, and blood began to leak from his nose and ears. The stocky woman gasped, her spiked mace slipping from her fingers to thud heavily onto the grass. Both of them collapsed forward, their bodies hitting the wet pine needles like empty sacks. Their souls had been completely crushed, their consciousness extinguished in an instant.
The broad-shouldered leader froze, his iron broadsword still raised. He looked at his two companions lying dead at his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs in sudden, suffocating terror.
"Who... who is there?" the leader screamed, his voice cracking as he backed away. "Show yourself!"
Fang Lin did not speak. He gathered his soul force once more, directing a third Soul Thrasher strike directly at the leader's forehead.
A heavy vibration shook the space.
A sharp, metallic hum echoed in the clearing.
A golden light flared from a small, green jade pendant hanging from the leader's neck. The pendant cracked down the center, releasing a defensive barrier of yellow light that absorbed the silent soul strike. The barrier shattered instantly, and the leader stumbled back, coughing blood, his eyes bloodshot and his head ringing with agonizing pain.
It was a soul-defense amulet. A rare, high-grade artifact that had saved his life, though it was now completely ruined.
"A soul master!" the leader roared, his dazed eyes fixing on the carriage window. His fear turned into a mad, desperate rage. He knew he could not outrun a soul master. His only chance of survival was to kill the caster before they could strike again.
He lunged forward, his iron broadsword wrapped in a violent, desperate surge of yellow earth Qi, aiming to cleave the entire carriage in half.
Inside the carriage, Uncle Zhang moved to shield the children, his forge hammer raised, ready to fight to the death as a mortal. Auntie Mei pulled Er Ya flat against the bench, her own body shielding the girl.
Fang Lin braced himself, his hand reaching toward his sleeve where the Night Burial Sword was concealed. He would have to force his meridians, even if it meant destroying his foundation.
Before he could circulate Qi through his passageways...
A sharp whistle cut the silence.
A brilliant, blinding streak of crimson and green sword Qi cut through the misty forest.
The Qi was hot and explosive, carrying the fierce heat of fire while remaining stable and resilient like green bamboo. It struck the descending iron broadsword with absolute precision, shattering the heavy weapon into a dozen flying metal shards.
A figure descended from the pine canopy like a falling crimson leaf, landing silently in the center of the road.
It was Feng Jiu'er.
Her elegant red-and-white robes were pristine, and the green bamboo embroidery on her sleeves seemed to hum with vibrant energy. She carried a slender sword with a green hilt, the blade glowing with a sharp, crimson flame. The pressure radiating from her was immense, far exceeding her previous level. She had broken through to the Core Formation Realm.
The broad-shouldered leader, already dazed and with his weapon shattered, stared at her in utter disbelief. "Green... Green Bamboo Sect..."
Feng Jiu'er did not give him a chance to speak.
She moved with incredible speed, leaving a faint green-red afterimage in the mist. Her Crimson Bamboo Sword drew a clean, perfect arc through the air. A thin line of crimson fire followed the blade, cutting through the leader's defensive earth Qi like paper.
The blade sliced across the leader's throat.
The broad-shouldered cultivator gasped, his hands flying to his neck as blood welled between his fingers. He fell backward, his body crashing into the wet bushes, his eyes staring blankly at the grey sky.
The clearing fell into a heavy, absolute silence. The only sound was the soft rustle of the pine branches in the morning wind.
Feng Jiu'er stood in the center of the road, her sword pointing downward, a single drop of blood sliding off the tip to sizzle on the damp earth. With a swift, practiced movement, she sheathed the blade with a soft click.
She did not look at the dead bodies. Instead, she turned slowly, her sharp, proud eyes scanning the carriage.
Uncle Zhang stood by the door, his forge hammer still raised, his expression a mix of shock and caution.
Feng Jiu'er walked toward the carriage, her steps light and silent. She stopped a few paces away, her gaze resting on the small wooden window.
Fang Lin sat in the corner, his hand resting inside his sleeve. His eyes met hers through the wooden slats.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was thick, filled with unuttered questions and hidden recognition. She did not call him by his name, nor did she mention his faked mortal identity. She did not ask how his companions had died without a single physical wound.
She simply looked at him, her proud eyes softening for a fraction of a second before hardening into her usual disciplined expression.
"Refugees should not take the mountain bypasses," she said, her voice calm, clear, and slightly sharp. "The Heavenly Sword Lake has mobilized their border patrols, and the rogue hunters are crawling through these hills. Go south. Avoid the valleys."
Before Uncle Zhang could speak a word of thanks, Feng Jiu'er turned and leaped upward. Her red robes flashed against the dark pine needles, leaving a faint green afterimage as she vanished into the thick canopy.
Uncle Zhang let out a long, slow breath, lowering his forge hammer. He turned back to the carriage, his eyes wide. "Lin Er... she is gone."
"Uncle Zhang," Fang Lin said, his voice a low, commanding whisper. "Take their storage bags. Quick. Collect the broken broadsword pieces and the cracked jade pendant too. We need the materials."
Uncle Zhang nodded immediately, understanding the necessity. Fleeing through the wilderness required every resource they could gather. He stepped quickly to the three bodies, his calloused hands swiftly retrieving the three leather storage pouches from their belts. He picked up the cracked copper sensing bead, the larger fragments of the shattered iron broadsword, and the broken jade pendant. He tossed them onto the carriage floor, covering them with a piece of rough canvas.
He climbed back into the carriage, shutting the door. "It is done."
"Move," Fang Lin directed the driver quietly.
The driver, pale and trembling, scrambled back onto his seat, slapped the reins, and guided the horses forward, steering the carriage past the three dead cultivators.
The carriage rolled onward, slipping deeper into the southern neutral territory as morning turned to afternoon.
By twilight, the carriage had left the narrow bypass roads behind, entering a quiet, misty valley surrounded by steep cliffs. They pulled the carriage into a shallow stone alcove hidden behind thick brambles.
Uncle Zhang built a small, smoke-free fire deep inside the alcove, using specialized charcoal to heat some soup for Auntie Mei and the children. Er Ya had finally woken up, eating quietly while Hu Zi watched the entrance, holding a wooden staff. Xiao Chuan sat by Fang Lin's side, watching him with quiet concern.
Fang Lin sat cross-legged in the rear of the stone alcove, away from the firelight.
His mind was calm. He focused entirely on his internal state, directing the cool, green vitality of the Nether Life Spirit Qi through his parallel pathways. The green energy hummed softly, gradually sealing the micro-tears in his meridians. The ache was beginning to fade, replaced by a cool, comfortable sensation. In another half a day, his pathways would be fully healed and ready to channel his Qi once more.
At midnight, the fire had died down to glowing embers, and everyone had fallen asleep.
Fang Lin opened his eyes.
Even without active Qi, his Peak-Solid Soul was vast and sharp. He closed his eyes again, releasing his divine sense in a silent, invisible wave that swept across the valley, scanning the cliffs and the canopy for any signs of movement.
His scan bypassed the sleeping carriage passengers, reached the outer edge of the stone alcove, and drifted up the rocky cliffs.
A few hundred meters away, perched high on a sturdy pine branch overlooking their campsite, a figure was sitting quietly.
She was wrapped in a deep-grey cloak that hid her red robes, her knees drawn to her chest, her Crimson Bamboo Sword resting across her lap. She was perfectly still, her breathing synchronized with the wind, her presence completely hidden from any ordinary cultivator's detection.
It was Feng Jiu'er.
She had not left. She was tailing them silently in the dark, guarding the campsite from the darkness.
Fang Lin slowly withdrew his divine sense, his face expressionless in the dim light of the embers. He leaned his head back against the stone wall, his eyes closing as he returned to his cultivation. The silence of the mountain night enveloped the valley, carrying the quiet assurance of the unseen guardian watching over them from the trees.
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