The ground approached rapidly as Ishin plummeted over the hillside. His scream tore through the wind, panic tightening every muscle in his body. He knew that having qi had strengthened him to some degree, but he prayed to the Heavens it would be enough.
Wind roared around him, whipping his hair and clothes as his descent accelerated. The velocity grew so intense that his spear slipped free from his grip—lost to the storm. Ishin struggled to rotate his body, trying to shield his impact with his pack, but the momentum was too great.
When the ground was only forty feet away, Ishin began cycling his qi, preparing to use the Pale Azure Force Lightning Technique. Maybe I can at least clear the ground—cut away dangerous foliage before I hit. But before he could complete the technique, the air around him abruptly condensed into a firm yet gentle band around his waist.
Mother!
The wind construct slowed his descent rapidly, then gently. By the time his feet touched the ground, the band dissipated like mist.
As it faded, Akira’s voice echoed in the wind, unmistakable and commanding. “Beneath Yellow Dome. Twenty days.”
“Wait!” Ishin called, though he knew it was useless. “I don’t…” His words faded with the wind.
He looked up toward the peak of Tyrant’s Rest. Violent flashes of light pulsed from its summit—brilliant, furious bursts of power. His mother was still fighting.
Again. I’m helpless. Again.
“No!” Ishin growled, teeth clenched tight. There’s no time for self-pity. She’d given him a command, and he would obey it.
He turned west and ran.
Rain still drizzled lightly, but as he sprinted across the uneven terrain, Ishin noticed sunlight beginning to pierce through the thinning storm clouds. The tempest was breaking.
Little did he know, atop a neighboring hill, curious eyes were tracking him. Lou Heng, painter turned warrior, set down his brush, the storm-swept landscape on his scroll forgotten. His golden third eye glimmered as he turned it toward Tyrant’s Rest.
Something happened up there. Something dangerous.
But it was the sight of Akira’s disciple running from the summit that truly intrigued him.
For hours, Ishin continued running west. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not unless he wanted his thoughts to drift back to Tyrant’s Rest—back to the battle he’d left behind.
She’s fine, he told himself. She has to be.
Ro Akira, First Warrior of the Daihu Tribe, was one of the most powerful cultivators in the Nine Striped Hills. She would destroy those assassins. He would see her again.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
He had to.
Ishin didn’t know much about Yellow Dome. Only that it was the closest city to the Nine Striped Hills, a place whispered about by merchants who passed through with rare goods. He only knew it lay somewhere west—but “west” in the Nine Striped Hills stretched for hundreds of miles.
Just keep running. West. Twenty days. That’s all I’ve got.
He ran until he could no longer draw breath. The wind tore at his face, and the constant exertion burned his muscles to the bone. Still, he pressed on, using the faint sunlight overhead for guidance.
Eventually, his vision began to blur. His breath came in ragged gasps. He tried to pull qi into his meridians—not to use a technique, but just to keep going. Just to move.
But there were limits.
With a final, gasping breath, Ishin collapsed into the tall, damp grass. Sleep claimed him instantly.
A feral snarl snapped him awake.
Adrenaline surged through him as he pushed himself upright. The source of the sound appeared immediately—just six feet away, circling him.
A Sun Tiger.
Not a cub this time. A full-grown adult, its amber eyes gleaming with hunger.
Ishin flooded his legs with qi and leapt back ten feet. A mistake.
The Sun Tiger took it as a sign of fear. It pounced.
Its paw slashed forward—too fast to block. Ishin tried anyway, raising both arms, but the beast's strength was overwhelming. The claws tore across his face, his arms, sending him tumbling.
“Ah!” he cried out, collapsing to the ground.
His left arm hung limp—broken. His right bled profusely from a torn forearm. Four shallow gashes cut across his face, the blood dripping into his eyes, blinding him.
The Sun Tiger didn’t care. It was a predator. It saw only weakness.
It stalked toward him again—slow, deliberate, savoring the moment. Ishin couldn’t even rise. His body refused to respond.
No. Not like this. Not here.
The Sun Tiger licked its lips, preparing for its final pounce.
Then—
Five crimson whips lashed through the air, slamming into the tiger and flinging it yards away.
What?!
Ishin turned his head, squinting through the blood.
A figure in a familiar scarlet and alabaster cloak stepped forward.
“You look awful, Disciple of Ro Akira.”
Lou Heng?
Another roar rang out. The Sun Tiger was already back on its feet, enraged.
“Down, cat,” Lou Heng said casually.
He raised an arm and flicked his fingers. Five more crimson whips flew out.
The beast dodged two—but the other three struck true.
Two wrapped around its front and back legs, binding them. The third coiled around its throat.
Lou Heng clenched his fingers into a fist.
The bindings tightened, choking the life from the struggling creature. It writhed, claws scraping helplessly at the earth. Ishin watched the fire fade from its eyes as it finally collapsed.
The crimson bindings liquefied into blood and splattered across the beast’s fur, staining it red.
Lou Heng had killed it—just as easily as Akira had, weeks before.
This is the power of the strong.
“Aargh!” Ishin cried out. A fresh wave of pain shot through him as his wounds reopened.
He raised a hand to his face—his ruined right hand—and winced as another stab of pain racked him.
Lou Heng stood over him, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
“I expected more from Ro Akira’s disciple.”
He sounded disappointed.
Have I just traded one threat for another?
Ishin recalled the rumors. The stories of Lou Heng—the painter who turned blood into art.
Great.
