Dawn came thin and cold, the last veins of winter mist drifting through Stonebrook’s crooked roofs. When the villagers stepped into the square, they found it already occupied. A convoy had rolled in during the night, its wagons looming like hulks at rest. Iron wheels gleamed faintly with frost, and the oxen stamped their hooves, exhaling white plumes into the brittle air.

  Children gathered first, chasing between the carriages, their laughter scattering the quiet. The older folk barely looked—caravans came and went with the sun, always racing daylight to the next walled town before bandits claimed the roads.

  At the head of the escort stood Jun Tai. Too young for command, yet the weight of it pressed hard on his shoulders. His jaw was set, his eyes catching the rising sun as though he might steal its fire. His father had begged him to stand aside, to yield the role to steadier men, but Jun Tai had refused. Pride would not let him retreat.

  Still, his father had bound him with iron words: every command from the academy youth must be obeyed. Do not risk your life needlessly. Jun Tai had bowed, though the order bit deep. He dared not question that student’s part in this mission. Silence, he sensed, was safer than asking.

  The escort fanned out, twenty strong, boots beating in rhythm, steel flashing pale. Jun Tai bore the title of leader, but strength betrayed the truth. His cultivation lingered at the peak of Mortal Vein—steady, yes, but shallow.

  The crowd’s murmur shifted, whispers sharpening. Their eyes had found another figure walking behind Jun Tai’s right shoulder. Rai Mu.

  Unease rippled through the square. He was the strongest of Stonebrook’s younger generation, already at the fifth stage of Qi Awakening, but his name carried weight that made tongues cautious.

  “Why would he be here?” someone muttered.

  “Must have taken a hefty sum,” another whispered back, eyes flicking to Jun Tai.

  A third voice, laced with regret and sympathy: “He never forgave us—but can we blame him? We drank and danced while he dug through the dead.”

  That memory clung to him like shadow. When the bandits had cut his father down, Rai Mu had searched the field until dawn, turning bodies with blood-crusted hands while the village lit lamps and raised their cups in relief. That wound had never healed.

  Since then, his house had seemed to retreat from the street, a dim place where he lived with his mother and sister, speaking little, smiling never.

  Jun Tai offered him a respectful nod. Rai Mu’s gaze slid past, flat and unyielding. The air between them chilled.

  Chief Qingshan’s fear for his son had driven him to Rai Mu’s door. He had bowed his head, begged, and bought the youth’s blade. Now Rai Mu’s silence was the sharpest steel among the escort. Yet no one knew whether that silence was loyalty—or contempt waiting to break.

  The caravan rolled out of Stonebrook at first light, oxen pulling steadily as wheels carved deep lines into the soft earth. The clamour of village life faded behind them, replaced by the slow hush of the forest. Within an hour, the road thinned, swallowed by green. Branches interlaced overhead, heavy with dew, and the air thickened with the musk of damp soil and the cry of unseen birds.

  Jun Tai raised his hand, halting the procession beside a shallow stream. Water trickled over pale stones, the sound sharp in the hush of the trees. The men shifted restlessly, watching as Jun Tai unhitched one of the carriages himself and guided it into the woods. The sight was strange—he was the leader, yet he left without explanation, disappearing among shadowed trunks where even morning light struggled to pierce.

  The escorts muttered but held their silence. Gold muffled questions. They had been promised thrice the usual pay, and coin weighed heavier than curiosity. Still, unease crept into their stances—fingers brushing hilts, palms pressing steel, a dozen blades ready if silence cracked the wrong way.

  Time dragged. Then Jun Tai reemerged, but the carriage was no longer at his side. He returned alone, footsteps brisk, face guarded. Suspicion narrowed the gazes that followed him. One of the older escorts drew breath to demand an answer—when a low rumble rolled from the treeline.

  Wheels.

  The missing carriage emerged, its silhouette swelling between the trees. A youth sat upon the driver’s bench, posture straight, movements unhurried. Younger than Jun Tai, younger even than Rai Mu—yet his arrival bent the rhythm of the convoy like a stone cast into still water.

  The men glanced at one another. None knew this face. Whispers rose in their hearts though their mouths stayed shut.

  Before any could speak, the stranger stood tall and offered a formal cupped-fist salute. His voice was calm, the syllables carrying a sharp clarity that cut through the forest hush.

  “I am of the Royal Academy. This convoy carries something of weight. The Academy does not entrust such matters to chance—I will see it through.”

  The name fell like a hammer. Royal Academy. Even the air seemed to shift. Murmurs dissolved into hurried bows, the escorts bending at once as if the words themselves carried authority sharper than steel. None doubted him—not when Jun Tai, silent at his side, gave no denial.

  Compliments tumbled out, clumsy in their haste. Praise for his talent, for his youth, for the fortune of their escort. To travel with one of the Academy—who would dare strike such a convoy? Confidence bloomed too quickly, like weeds in fertile soil.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Only Rai Mu did not bow. He studied the newcomer with steady eyes, unreadable in their depth. No envy. No fear. Only a sadness that lingered, faint but cutting.

  Xiao Lei’s gaze paused on him, the faintest flicker of interest crossing his eyes before he moved on. He marked the youth but gave no sign beyond that. Then he inclined his head toward Jun Tai. The boy’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding as he forced the order.

  “Move.”

  The convoy lurched forward again. Dust lifted. Wheels creaked. Jun Tai swallowed his hatred like bitter iron, burying it where no eye could see.

  The convoy pressed forward at a steady rhythm, wheels creaking, boots crunching on the dirt path. Xiao Lei walked at the centre, Jun Tai tight at one flank, Rai Mu at the other. Their positions were not chosen by chance—Jun Tai’s every motion screamed of vigilance, his young body tense as if his sole purpose were to shield the academy youth from harm.

  The road had been quiet, broken only by two sudden beast attacks. Both had been dispatched without much effort, leaving behind only smeared blood on leaves and the wary glances of escorts. Yet Xiao Lei’s expression never shifted. He knew silence was not safety. The real storm had yet to fall.

  By afternoon the forest thinned, opening into a shallow clearing where shafts of light spilled unevenly through the canopy. Xiao Lei’s gaze flicked sharply to his left. A breath later, the air split with a whistle—an arrow streaked past and buried itself in the chest of an escort.

  “Bandits!” someone cried.

  Chaos snapped into being. Men scrambled into formation. One of them shouted the name of the Royal Academy, hurling it into the woods like a talisman. The answer came in iron rain. Arrows hissed down, piercing flesh and earth alike. One escort staggered back with a shaft through his throat, another folded to the ground clutching his chest.

  For a heartbeat, panic froze the line—then the second volley fell, heavier. In two breaths, half a dozen men were struck; two collapsed without a sound, never to rise again.

  Xiao Lei’s senses flared along the air currents, noting the subtle distortion of Qi with each arrow’s release. Timing, trajectory, and the faint hum of intent told him exactly where the next would strike—and where it wouldn’t.

  From the treeline, figures emerged—ten men in black, masks concealing their faces. They dropped lightly from the branches, blades drawn, rushing the shaken escort line.

  But Xiao Lei’s attention stretched further. His senses prickled. Beyond the first wave, three figures stepped from the forest, each radiating the pressure of the third stage of Qi Awakening. A moment later, from the opposite side, three more appeared, their strength heavier, pulsing at the fifth stage.

  The clash roared around him, steel on steel, blood spattering into the trampled grass. Yet those nine remained still, circling wolves biding their time. The air thickened with their restrained intent.

  Beside him, Rai Mu’s gaze flicked toward Xiao Lei for the briefest instant—sharp, unreadable. Then it was gone, lost in the heat of battle.

  At last, the trap tightened. Xiao Lei, Jun Tai, and Rai Mu found themselves drawn before the strongest. Three at the fifth stage advanced on Xiao Lei; the other three, weapons glinting, faced Rai Mu. The youths exchanged no words—only a flicker of acknowledgment.

  “Fall back,” Xiao Lei ordered, voice flat, directed at Jun Tai.

  The words cut sharp. Jun Tai’s pride bristled, humiliation heating his veins. Yet he knew the truth. Against Qi Awakening cultivators, his strength meant little. Gritting his teeth, he obeyed in form, though his steps lingered dangerously close to Xiao Lei’s shadow.

  Steel rang. Xiao Lei’s strikes met theirs, but he held back, his movements precise yet measured. Their coordination was tight, leaving no gap to exploit. Sparks scattered as his clawed gloves met the attacker’s sword, then the fighters broke apart for a heartbeat.

  A sliver of doubt pressed into his mind. Was I wrong? Perhaps there is no mole after all… If so, the profit of this mission would dwindle.

  Then—a subtle shift in aura. Danger behind him.

  His eyes snapped wide, but too late. A blade whispered toward his back. Not from the bandits. From Rai Mu. The betrayal was silent, swift. Xiao Lei shifted, preparing to deflect, but the distance was too short. Even with speed, he would not escape unscathed.

  And then Jun Tai moved.

  With a choked cry, he hurled himself between. Steel bit into his body, the blow meant for Xiao Lei landing wholly upon him. Blood sprayed. The sound of impact cracked the air, heavier than the clash of blades.

  Jun Tai’s gaze met Xiao Lei’s. No fear stirred in him—only fierce, solemn pride. He had acted as any loyal son would, offering his life in obedience to his father’s command.

  Yet in Xiao Lei’s eyes, he found no flicker of acknowledgment, no whisper of gratitude. Only calculation. Cold, unyielding, as if his sacrifice were nothing but a variable in some intricate equation.

  Jun Tai’s thoughts fractured. There was no time for reflection. His legs buckled, chest heaving as the last breath left him. He crumpled to the earth. The forest floor received him silently.

  A shout erupted. “You traitor!” Another voice hurled fury at Rai Mu. Grief and rage rekindled the remaining escorts, and they surged forward. Black-clad bandits felt the pressure, pushed backward under disciplined retaliation, perhaps spurred by vengeance, perhaps by fear of the chief’s wrath.

  Xiao Lei’s focus shifted, scanning the battlefield. Seven men converged upon him, but his eyes rested on Rai Mu. He had known of him long before this encounter, aware of his strained relations with Chief Qingshan, yet now the pieces of the puzzle were aligning.

  The seven lunged in unison. Xiao Lei’s aura flared, the peak of his seventh-stage Qi Awakening radiating outward like a storm breaking over the forest. Steel clashed against steel, flesh against flesh. Despite the numbers, they barely pierced his defences; only shallow cuts marred his arms. Their coordination was tight, but not flawless.

  Clawing gloves flashed. One strike tore through, embedding deep in a third-stage expert’s shoulder. Xiao Lei pivoted with fluid precision, closing the gap to Rai Mu. His fist collided with Rai Mu’s blade. The motion was deliberate, a whisper amid chaos. His voice, low and lethal, brushed Rai Mu’s ear:

  “So… what’s the next step? Escape, or die in this battle?”

  Rai Mu froze. Disbelief widened his eyes, sorrow settling over them like a shadow. A fleeting, tremulous smile passed his lips as his grip faltered. Xiao Lei’s strike followed—blades knocked aside, and his punch found its mark: Rai Mu’s chest, unguarded, accepting his fate in silence.

  The remaining six experts remained oblivious to the silent fall, scattering in disarray once the momentum shifted. Xiao Lei’s gaze sharpened on the injured third-stage bandit. Void Step closed the distance in a breath; the man’s primordial echo remained unformed before his head split under a single strike.

  The forest fell into tense stillness, broken only by groans of the wounded and the low breaths of the surviving escorts. Xiao Lei turned toward the fleeing bandits. Around him, the remaining escorts clustered near the fallen, especially Jun Tai. To them, his sacrifice was monumental—a young life given for honour and duty, a symbol of courage that would ripple through the village long after the battle.

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  Destiny Reckoning. It’s set in the same universe, and you definitely don’t want to miss it, because the stories will eventually crossover.