The cold wind stirred uneasily through the camp as whispers of treachery wound through every conversation. Tension, like the icy gusts, hung heavy in the air. Faces once filled with quiet resolve were now etched with suspicion. The failed assassination attempt on Hui Jian had left a scar, not just on those involved, but on the very fabric of the camp's fragile unity.
Rumors were like fire in the North Plains—they spread fast, their heat consuming everything in their path. Every corner of the camp buzzed with hushed voices, fragments of conversation slipping through the cracks in the silence. "Perhaps Hui Jian knew about the plot," some dared to suggest. "How else could he have survived so easily?"
Others, more paranoid, muttered of darker forces at play—suggestions that the deaths within the camp were no accident, but orchestrated moves in a game they were too blind to see. But even those who were unsure of the rumors found themselves wondering: how had Hui Jian risen so quickly, so decisively? Could it be pure luck, or was there something more sinister beneath the surface?
Through it all, Hui Jian remained calm, his outward demeanor untroubled by the growing suspicion. His silence unnerved many; his lack of reaction, his quiet confidence—too perfect, too composed. He seemed to stand at the center of the storm, unshaken, watching as the rumors swirled around him like the relentless frost. To the others, this only made him more inscrutable, a man walking a razor-thin line between savior and manipulator.
But within the confines of his tent, Hui Jian's mind never rested. He could feel the weight of the camp's suspicions pressing in on him, and he welcomed it. Fear and doubt were tools, and if used correctly, they could solidify his control over the people. He had already prepared for this, long before the first plot against him had even begun.
As the camp stirred with unease, Fang Ru found herself standing at the edge of Hui Jian's tent. Her breath caught in the cold night air, mingling with the mist. She hesitated. She'd heard the whispers too, the accusations that Hui Jian had orchestrated everything—from Tao Xun's death to the strange occurrences that followed. Fang Ru had been loyal to Hui Jian, but doubt had a way of creeping in, like frost seeping through the cracks of an old wall.
Summoning her courage, she stepped forward and pushed the tent flap aside.
"Hui Jian," she said quietly, her voice carrying an edge of uncertainty.
He sat by the fire, its flickering light casting long shadows on his face. He looked up as she entered, his expression calm, as if he had been expecting her.
"Fang Ru," he greeted, his voice steady, almost warm. "You look troubled."
She stepped closer, the crackling fire offering little comfort against the storm of thoughts swirling in her mind. "The camp is falling apart," she began, keeping her tone measured. "People are scared. They're saying things... about you."
A flicker of acknowledgment passed over Hui Jian's face, though he didn't seem fazed. "That I planned it?" he asked simply, finishing her thought with unsettling accuracy. "That I orchestrated the deaths?"
Fang Ru's heart skipped a beat. She hadn't expected him to be so direct. "I don't know what to think," she admitted, her voice faltering. "You've saved us more than once, but—"
"But you wonder what price we've paid for that salvation?" Hui Jian's tone was soft, his words precise. He gestured for her to sit beside him by the fire. Reluctantly, she did, though her mind raced with uncertainty.
"Hui Jian, I just... I don't know if I can trust anyone anymore," Fang Ru confessed. "Not even myself."
"That's the poison of fear," Hui Jian replied, his voice carrying a note of understanding. "Fear clouds judgment. It makes people question everything. But that's why strong leadership is needed more than ever. This isn't about trust anymore, Fang Ru. It's about survival. And sometimes, survival means making choices others might not understand."
Fang Ru's eyes flickered with doubt. She looked into the flames, the heat warming her face but doing nothing to soothe the cold in her chest. "But at what cost?" she asked, barely more than a whisper.
"At the cost of everything, if necessary." Hui Jian's voice was calm, resolute. "You've seen the North Plains. There is no kindness here, no room for sentimentality. People will die—more people than we've already lost. But if we don't act decisively, we'll lose everyone."
She looked at him, trying to find the man she had once trusted implicitly. He still seemed the same—calm, in control—but there was a distance now, something she couldn't quite reach. "And you're sure... you're sure this is the right path?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
Hui Jian didn't answer immediately. He looked into the fire, his expression unreadable. "The right path," he mused, "is the one that keeps us alive."
Before Fang Ru could respond, a loud commotion from outside the tent interrupted their conversation. Raised voices cut through the night air, drawing their attention. Hui Jian stood swiftly, his expression sharpening.
"Come," he said, his tone commanding as he led the way outside.
As they approached the source of the disturbance, they found a gathering of survivors huddled near one of the supply tents. Several of them looked panicked, their faces pale with fear. Fang Ru's heart sank when she saw the damage—supplies, already scarce, lay scattered on the ground, some burned beyond recognition.
Lei Xing, his expression a mixture of anger and satisfaction, stood at the center of the group. "Sabotage!" he shouted, pointing at the destruction. "Someone's destroyed the rations! We won't last a week now!"
Panic rippled through the crowd. Whispers of conspiracy grew louder, fear spreading like a wildfire. The faces of the survivors were filled with dread as they began to realize the full weight of what had happened. Without those supplies, survival seemed bleak.
Hui Jian stepped forward, his presence immediately silencing the group. His calm, commanding demeanor cut through the chaos. "Whoever did this," he began, his voice carrying over the hushed crowd, "wanted to break us. To weaken us from within while we're already fighting for our lives. But we will not fall apart because of it."
His words had a chilling clarity. He wasn't shouting, but the force behind his tone was enough to still the rising panic. Fang Ru watched as the camp's attention shifted, their fear tempered by his unshaken confidence.
"This is no time for division," Hui Jian continued, his eyes scanning the faces of the crowd. "The beastmen are still out there, preparing to strike. If we don't stand together, we'll be overrun."
He turned his gaze to Lei Xing, his expression sharp. "You've brought this to our attention, Lei Xing. I trust you will lead the investigation into the sabotage. Find those responsible, and make sure they are dealt with accordingly."
For a brief moment, Lei Xing's smug confidence faltered. His eyes darted around, realizing the weight of the responsibility that had just been thrust upon him. Leading the investigation meant more than just looking into the sabotage—it meant taking full responsibility for its success or failure. But with Hui Jian's gaze locked on him, there was no room to refuse. Lei Xing swallowed hard and nodded.
The crowd began to disperse, their fear temporarily subdued by Hui Jian's commanding presence. They still whispered of treachery, but for now, their loyalty had been reaffirmed. Fang Ru lingered near the edge of the group, watching as Hui Jian walked through the camp, his mind clearly already moving to the next step.
Fang Ru approached him once more, her unease growing. "You've bought us time," she said quietly, her voice tinged with doubt, "but how much longer can we hold this together?"
Hui Jian glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "Long enough," he replied, though his tone held a deeper meaning. One she wasn't sure she wanted to understand.
As Hui Jian walked away through the snow-laden plains, he recalled a passage from the Legends of Ren Zu, a tale about his second child, Desolate Ancient Moon. It was a story often passed down to Gu Masters, one that resonated with those who walked a solitary path.
In the legend, after Ren Zu gave birth to his first child, Verdant Great Sun, a being of warmth and brilliance, he was soon faced with the birth of another—Desolate Ancient Moon. Unlike her brother, who thrived in the light and drew others to him, Desolate Ancient Moon was cold and distant. She shone alone in the sky, a pale figure surrounded by emptiness.
Where the first child was bold and full of life, the second child represented the opposite—detachment and the inevitability of isolation. Ren Zu could not understand why his daughter was so distant, why her presence always seemed to make others feel the vast loneliness of the universe. But Wisdom Gu appeared and whispered to Ren Zu:
"Desolate Ancient Moon is the reflection of the solitude in every heart. She reminds you that no matter how many surround you, the journey of life is ultimately one you walk alone. But do not despair, for she also teaches that in solitude, there is clarity. The cold light of the moon shows things as they truly are, without the distractions of warmth."
Hui Jian, navigating the unforgiving North Plains, found a deep resonance in the tale. Like Desolate Ancient Moon, he had chosen a path of isolation, calculating each move carefully, hiding his ambitions beneath layers of cold indifference. He knew, as Ren Zu had learned, that true strength often required standing apart, enduring the cold while others sought the warmth of false unity.
He glanced up at the pale sky, where a weak crescent moon hung in the distance. "Isolation," he murmured to himself, "brings clarity. I will not waver."