Yan perched in the crook of a gnarled tree, limbs tucked into the canopy like a hunting forest cat. His tall, lean frame helped him blend into the swaying leaves high above a restless herd of sheep. He watched, unmoving, each breath shallow. Below him, Guanglin crouched low within a dense thicket, tugging dry underbrush and leafy branches over his back until only the dark shine of his eyes remained visible. His breathing was measured, each inhale slow, calculated. Senses honed. Beneath his sleeve, the wooden knuckles—fashioned from jagged tooth and smooth wood—slipped silently over his fingers. He flexed his grip once. Cold ridges settled against flesh, a weapon coiled, awaiting provocation.

  But nothing stirred.

  Time dragged onward like molasses under shade. The forest remained stubbornly still, save for occasional rustling from a lazy breeze or the distant chirp of unseen birds. The sheep grazed a while longer, then sniffed the air—confused. Eventually, they began to shuffle away, their initial interest dulled, the strange scent that had lured them here weakening.

  When both boys were convinced the trail had gone cold, they slowly emerged. Yan dropped to the ground without a sound. Guanglin stood, brushing dirt from his tunic. Their expressions were tight—not from fear, but irritation, and a slow-burning fatigue that came from chasing answers that wouldn’t show themselves.

  "Let’s go," Guanglin muttered. He slid the knuckles into his pocket, the ridges catching momentarily on rough cloth. "We’ve exhausted this place."

  They trudged back toward the village. The woods thinned, branches yielding to open trail. The silence between them remained, their thoughts turned inward. But as the rooftops appeared in the distance, so too did rising voices—sharp, panicked.

  A column of smoke spiraled into the afternoon sky.

  Without a word, Guanglin broke into a sprint.

  “Xia!”

  He bolted through the narrow alleys, bare feet skidding against packed dirt. Around him, villagers shouted and pointed, gathering beneath the ancient tamarind tree near the edge of the market square.

  “Move!” he barked, his voice cutting through the crowd like steel. His shoulder collided with startled bodies as he barreled forward. People gasped, stepped aside, moved by the sheer urgency radiating from him. Panic knotted in his gut. He could already smell smoke—and something else. Blood.

  When he burst into the clearing, his heart stilled.

  Xia’s home lay in ruin. The front door hung shattered on one hinge. Shards of furniture littered the yard. Herbs—dried, fresh, powdered—were strewn everywhere, their familiar scents mingling with the sharp tang of iron.

  A slick trail of blood led across the threshold.

  Under a collapsed roof beam—Xia.

  Villagers tried desperately to dig her out, but their movements were hesitant, fumbling. Guanglin charged forward.

  "Back!"

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  He tore through the wreckage like a man possessed. Splintered wood, overturned shelves, heavy beams—all thrown aside as if weightless. He reached her and dropped to his knees.

  Xia was barely conscious, her skin pale and clammy. Her left foot—mangled, twisted at an unnatural angle. One of her arms bent the wrong way. Blood clung to her face, leaking from a deep gash that stretched from ear to jaw, exposing torn flesh beneath.

  “Yan!” Guanglin roared.

  “I’m with you!”

  “Keep everyone away from her!”

  Yan planted himself between the girl and the onlookers, arms outstretched. “No one moves past me!”

  Guanglin turned to the closest villager, a wide-eyed boy. “Get Shun—Jiehao’s friend. Tell him we need the doctor. Now!”

  The boy nodded and ran.

  Guanglin eased Xia onto a woven mat. His voice dropped to a whisper, inaudible to others. Her eyes fluttered briefly, then closed.

  A guard stood nearby, part of the village headman’s assigned watch. Guanglin stalked toward him.

  He grabbed the man by the shoulder and forced him to his knees. “You were stationed here!” he hissed. “What happened?”

  The man stammered. “We—we were making rounds… when we came back, it was already like this. Zhang—he’s dead. Torn apart. And the old man—Hongwei—he’s pinned to the wall.”

  The crowd collectively gasped.

  Guanglin’s grip tightened.

  “Where’s the headman?”

  “He went to greet the Shang Clan’s steward—he’s just arrived.”

  With a snarl, Guanglin shoved the guard aside and slammed his fist into the earth. Dirt cracked beneath his knuckles, forming a crater nearly the width of a bowl.

  Jiehao appeared behind him, his voice low. “Guanglin.”

  He placed a steadying hand on his brother’s shoulder. Slowly, Guanglin’s breathing steadied.

  They turned back toward the wreckage.

  Zhang’s body was strewn across the floor, unrecognizable. Limbs ripped free, chest torn open, face frozen in a mask of terror. Nearby, Hongwei’s body hung impaled against the wall, a massive sword driven through his torso.

  Guanglin activated his heightened senses. The familiar, disturbing scent returned—blood and rust—but now mingled with something sweet and floral. Perfumed. Feminine. In the dried blood—faint prints. Slender. A woman’s.

  His gut twisted. Had he brought this horror back with him?

  Then, from the road, came armored footsteps.

  The village head approached—flanked by warriors in deep blue lacquered armor. In their midst walked a tall man with silver-threaded robes and calm eyes.

  The steward had arrived.

  Guards quickly formed a perimeter, urging villagers back. One stepped toward Guanglin.

  “We’ll take the girl now.”

  “No,” Guanglin snapped.

  “It’s protocol.”

  “She stays.”

  He stepped forward, catching the guard’s wrist before he could protest.

  The man froze.

  The village head tried to interject. “Guanglin, please—”

  A hand rose, silencing him.

  “I am Ruifeng,” the newcomer said. “Steward to the Shang Clan’s third son, Ziyan.”

  His voice was calm, but carried weight.

  “This is a crime against the peace. Within three days, justice shall be served.”

  He turned to Guanglin.

  “Your loyalty is noted. The girl stays in your care—for now.”

  Guanglin bowed his head. “Then allow me to help. I know this land. Let me search with you.”

  “This matter is Clan business,” Ruifeng said. “But you’ll be informed.”

  Guanglin nodded.

  Later, Xia lay unconscious in Guanglin’s home. A physician worked quietly, muttering about shattered bones and internal bruising.

  Guanglin watched from a corner, eyes hollow.

  Outside, Ruifeng directed his men across the wreckage. “Catalog everything,” he ordered. “I want footprints, blood trails, missing herbs—nothing escapes our eye.”

  To one guard—Tao—he asked, “Why did you let the boy stop you?”

  Tao hesitated. “He was... different. His strength. It wasn’t natural.”

  “Noted,” Ruifeng said.

  He summoned Gaou Ren.

  “Tell me about Xia. And the boy.”

  Gaou’s voice was solemn. “Xia is bright, like her father. And Guanglin—he’s built like a boulder and twice as steady. But there’s fire in him.”

  Ruifeng nodded, stepping toward the crater Guanglin had made.

  He examined it, crouched, then drew a familiar object from his sleeve—wooden knuckles, matching Guanglin’s.

  He stared at them in silence before slipping them away again.

  Above him, the sky darkened with encroaching clouds.

  He didn’t notice.

  He was already lost in calculations of blood, bone, and shadow.