Hao crushed berries and painted his face red; his appearance became mottled, like that of Meng Hongyu. The night air made it tacky. The Yang side of the Secret Realm was warmer than the center zone. Yet as Hao sat, a light frost grew on the ground. On the Yin side, he could imagine the opposite, perhaps over there, it seemed Winter came early.

  Their camp sat in a clearing. A man made one evident by the fallen trees that were stripped of leaves and branches, trimmed from the bottom up. The branches had been burned. As for the leaves, they were in piles, if not laid flat, as a barrier between their feet from moist dirt, along with the bags that had stacked up around the camp. More bags than Hao bothered to count. Tents, too, they had just as many tents as people, if they numbered nine. Only four lurked outside.

  The moonlight that shone down let Hao get a good grasp of the camp and its people. He waited for a few reasons. To see how many there really were, and if those who killed Grandpa He were all here.

  It was for that comfort that they came over here to the Yang side. Mo Bangcai and his entire group, if not for comfort, perhaps it was just chance, though the struggling flame they fought to keep going said comfort was their number one priority.

  Comfort is what they got. In exchange, they were exposed, easy to find, stalk, and hunt. The light frost in the pre-dawn early hours was the only worry of someone who wanted to move with stealth. Bangcai’s shouts covered any squeak made by the foot.

  Beasts came and went. Hao could hear them stalk up around the camp’s edge or scurry up trees. Only for the crackling of wood in the fire to scare them. If the fire didn’t send them into a run, a “We could get more! We can overpower most of the little guardians trying to play heroes. Sun-Rot can’t be everywhere!” or something similar from Bangcai’s rich, melancholy voice cleared tree tops and burrows.

  As the forest cleared again, nearly the same response was echoed each time. “Young Master, please calm down. We should remain quiet during the night. We don’t know what is lurking.”

  Hao would have welcomed a beast to act first. But not a single one that came remained. Most didn’t notice him, and he didn’t notice them other than their sounds and calls. Hao was quietly hoping this Feline Demonic Beast would wander over. The creature was on this side of the wood, according to that girl, Fa, anyway. With how on edge that guard from Two Rivers was, Hao thought it would be close. But in the end, nothing larger than a featherless bird—not that they were much smaller than a human child—or a rat came, leaving after an incense worth of time.

  Except for Hao, who sat, watched, and listened. Most of their conversations were useless drivel, but Hao felt reassured as he watched them roll amethyst through their fingers as they fidgeted around. All of them shivered from the cold. Yet only two of them in the place they made camp didn’t have bouncing legs or jerking shoulders. Bangcai and the gray-haired one, who bolstered the fire each time Bangcai kicked it.

  Bangcai put his hands on his head, his fingers red. He spun in a circle as he spoke, “Are our hunting teams now scared of a few beasts?”

  The gray one saved the hide of the last one to speak to their young master, backing him up with reason, “We still have an injured Young Master.” His voice was calm and orderly, commanding almost. Aged like his appearance. Worse, his reason was sound, clear, and strong.

  That one is going to be hard to deal with… Hao could instantly tell why this group of shivering fools managed to make it so long in the Secret Realm without another loss. He looked in the same direction as them, to the tent Bangcai had slapped earlier. That is where they hold the injured. Hao felt a flash of anger. But he kept it down. Not everyone around the fire was part of his normal group, the old man, yes, but the rest must have been the injured in that tent. The group that killed Grandpa He for laughs.

  It must have been this grayed one’s commands that made them able to retreat from a swordsman like Meng Hongyu, unless Hongyu was in an even worse condition because of the spores. Still, Bangcai listened to the old man to an extent.

  Mo Bangcai didn’t seem like the type to listen to reason, but he stopped his spin after the grayed man spoke. “They ambushed us. If we were ready,” he said. He got closer to the fire and pointed at the tents randomly—more tents than the group would need. His arms fell to his sides. An ugly expression grew on his face as he sat, his bottom lip pressed up over the top. His hands hit the ground. Pushed closer to the fire, light danced around his face as moonlight lit them from above.

  Hao was surprised they acted so human. He shouldn’t have been; he could act the same way, then kill someone at a coin flip, though he was not as purposeless in his kill as they were. At least, he thought, he hoped not. Then he was reminded of what they were; they only sat quietly for a moment, then one, a short man with wide shoulders and short hair, stood and walked over to a tent. He hit the tent. Gently, but enough to wake whoever was inside.

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  “Get out of here. Get drinks for your young master.” The man stifled a shout, making it a bark.

  Two people crawled from the tent, and the moonlight shone at a slight angle, highlighting the bruises on their faces. Both men, thankfully, thought it was not a good thing for them. Hao didn’t want to know who else was in that tent. They supported each other as they stood.

  The pair hobbled around the camp, shoulder to shoulder. Each grabbed things they seemed familiar with, a jug, and some cups, then searched bag after bag for the drink they were to pour. Both of them pulled out jars. Untouched sealed jars, and large ones at that, of wine, fresh as could be from the lack of dust on them.

  How much wine do people bring around…

  As the two fumbled around, Hao pulled his head to the fire again. The old man stood up and walked away. His steps slow, he went to the far side of the camp and checked the injured. He didn’t come back to the fire, however. He stood at the edge of the camp and stared out. A bandage wrapped up his leg.

  “Hurry pourers!” Bangcai called, his voice close to a yell again.

  The two of them bumbled forward together, the jug now full of a red liquid that rippled in the fire’s reflection. They handed out the cups. The fourth meant for the older man, now an extra cup was placed down where he was sitting. They carefully poured and shivered. One cup at a time, they went around in a circle, the wine so thick it looked like syrup.

  Hao could smell the alcohol and sugar from where he waited. To get out of wine, a stupid decision that would work well in Hao’s favor, unless they knew how to expel it from their blood. A shame that the old man isn’t drinking any. The man with gray hair stood in that same spot a while longer. His feet made the frost pop. Bangcai, in all his bumbling, didn’t make a single noise as he walked around. I will have to remember that. Hao washed his sticky hands in the frost and applied more gray dust to his hair before pulling the hood of the white cloak snugly to his forehead.

  *

  Hao spent his time in cultivation while he waited for the camp to get quiet.

  It was closer to morning than midnight when they got through the two jars of alcohol. No light yet to be seen. The old man had returned to the fire. But he didn’t sit, nor take a drink. When Bangcai offered the man to drink, almost commanding with slurred speech, the man turned him down. He told him to stop and go to sleep. Ever since, Bangcai has had a tight-browed expression, like a hungry dog in a cage that had yet to eat.

  The old man warmed himself, then walked away again. He checked the tent of the injured and walked to the edge of the camp, his eyes sharp.

  Bangcai, on the other hand, didn’t move, not his legs. His hand reached out and grabbed the leg of one of the pourers, who could barely stand or stay awake. Their drooped faces told of their exhaustion. Though as the man was grabbed, he tried to go back, the other pourer who held him teetered as he tried to stay upright, with no success. They both fell back and hit the ground together.

  “Oh, careful now. If you make too much noise and attract a beast. You’ll be bait.” Bangcai laughed; the two others, not nearly as drunk, put on fake smiles. “Get more… No, never mind, go away. I don’t want to see your ugly faces anymore; it makes the wine sour.” Bangcai muttered. The cup left his hand and hit one of them in the back.

  The two pourers pushed against each other and stood up, the cup bounced off one and rolled back to the Bangcai. They didn’t give it a mind. They took what was in their hand with them to the tent that crawled from. The flap closed tightly with shivering hands.

  “Sun-Touched Swordsman…” Bangcai said it slowly, like he wanted it to come out as a clever insult. “Sun-Touched.” He spat into the fire. “Arrogant, ignorant, that bastard, that ugly bastard, all of them call him that name, revering that disfigured face. HA!” He reached for the cup that rolled back to him and tried to drink from it. He went for the jars themselves next.

  Hao watched with distaste. His dislike of the man was already at its peak, or so he thought, until this night when he witnessed how the little beast talked and acted. The drunker Bangcai got, the more he spoke, going on a tirade about Meng Hongyu. When the last drops of the wine left the jars, he threw them at the tent where the pourers retreated. The two men at the fire forced themselves to stay away. Both pretended to listen, and others peeked from the tent before they quickly pulled back, bandages on their heads, arms, and chests.

  Bangcai didn’t get far into his fifth rant before he walked himself into a tent. He was silenced by the gray man, a hand over his drunken hand. “Young master, I will keep guard, but first let me help you get some of the alcohol out of your system…”

  Bangcai had choice words he wanted to say, but they stayed behind his lips. “Just because you serve my master…” was all he said.

  The other two stomped on the fire at the old man’s nod, and they turned in for the night. One had a stumble, the other glanced around sharp as a whip before he poured out his cup on the last of the embers in the firepit.

  Hao stood, the quiet of the forest seemed like a song, and Hao hummed inside his head with it as he walked forward. It was the same song he had heard a few times before when he practiced Seven Colored Steps.