The forest winds carried a strange stillness that week. Birds flew low. The howls of distant beasts grew quieter—not from peace, but as if something darker loomed, silencing them.

  Ren noticed it first in his training.

  His father, Shen Liang, seemed more distant, more thoughtful. He would pause mid-instruction, eyes drifting to the mountains beyond the horizon, hands tightening around the hilt of his wooden sword. His movements were still sharp, precise—but there was a weight behind them. As if the past hung on his shoulders like armor he could never remove.

  One afternoon, after a long round of sparring, Ren sat in the courtyard, catching his breath. Shen Liang stood by the edge of the training ground, watching the clouds gather in the north.

  “Father,” Ren said, wiping sweat from his brow, “can I ask you something?”

  Shen Liang looked down at him, raising an eyebrow.

  “You’re strong. Everyone says you could’ve been stronger. Why did you stop at Level 8?”

  For a long moment, there was only silence.

  Then Shen Liang smiled, a quiet, tired thing. “Not all wounds are visible, Ren. Some kinds of pain make you stronger. Others… just stop you from moving forward.”

  He placed a hand on Ren’s shoulder. “You’ll understand one day. Just focus on the path ahead.”

  Ren wanted to ask more, but the look in his father’s eyes stopped him.

  That evening, the village square was unusually crowded. Elders, merchants, cultivators, and travelers stood around the old well, murmuring in low voices. At the center stood a group of robed men—messengers from the provincial sects. Their clothes were dusty from travel, and one of them had dried blood on his sleeve.

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  The village head, an elderly man with a long beard, raised his hand. “Silence, please.”

  The lead messenger stepped forward, his voice grave. “The frontlines have fallen. The eastern wall has been breached.”

  Gasps spread through the crowd.

  The messenger continued. “The Monster Clans have begun their march. Their armies—mutated beasts, corrupted spirits, and twisted giants—are gathering in numbers we have not seen in a century.”

  A murmur rose. Someone shouted, “What about the sects? The empire?”

  “We are rallying forces,” the messenger replied. “Sects across the regions have begun summoning cultivators. All Level 7 and above are being called. Those at Level 6 may begin training at military temples to prepare.”

  “Are… are we at war?” someone whispered.

  The messenger looked around. “The war has already begun. The first battles have been fought—and lost. The real question is not if the monsters will reach us… but when.”

  Later that night, Shen Liang sat by the fire with Xue Lian. They said nothing at first. She stirred the herbs in the iron pot while he gazed into the flames.

  “I saw the look in your eyes today,” she said softly.

  Shen Liang didn’t reply immediately.

  “They’re going to call you again,” she added.

  “I won’t go,” he muttered.

  “You have to.”

  “I can’t,” he said sharply. “Not again. Not after what happened.”

  Xue Lian placed a hand over his.

  “We were different people back then,” she said. “We’ve healed.”

  Shen Liang shook his head. “Not completely.”

  From the shadows outside, Ren sat on the rooftop, listening. He didn’t catch every word—but something in his father’s tone chilled him. There was pain there. Regret. Fear.

  And something else.

  A deep, quiet fury.

  In the days that followed, recruitment notices were pinned to the village gates. Rumors spread like wildfire—of monster generals with eyes like suns, of entire villages swallowed by shadow, of poisoned lands where crops would never grow again.

  A map was pinned to the town hall wall, showing red marks where battles had taken place. Each week, the red grew closer to their region.

  The people began preparing. Blacksmiths worked late into the night. Hunters sharpened their arrows. Cultivators trained harder. Even Ren’s friends began talking about the war in hushed tones.

  Boqin wanted to become a soldier. Lian swore to protect the village. Yun whispered that her brother had already gone to the frontlines—and hadn’t returned.

  One morning, as Ren prepared for meditation, Shen Liang handed him a wooden case.

  Inside was a short iron blade—old, but well-forged. Its handle was wrapped in faded cloth, and the scabbard bore the crest of a sect Ren didn’t recognize.

  “This was mine,” Shen Liang said. “When I was young.”

  Ren looked up at him. “You were part of a sect?”

  Shen Liang hesitated, then nodded. “A long time ago.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  Another pause. Then, quietly: “Because I saw something I couldn’t unsee.”

  He stood, his voice distant. “Monsters don’t just kill the body, Ren. They break the spirit. Twist the mind. Turn people into something else.”

  He turned back toward the forest, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “And sometimes… the worst monsters wear human skin.”