Night descended with a hush, the gorge walls silhouetted against a canopy of stars. Yin Feiyan and Lan Zhuoran dozed fitfully beside the embers of their dying fire, while Gao Tianrong maintained a vigilant watch near the overhang's edge. Despite his calm exterior, his thoughts churned. The relic's potential—capable of both restoration and annihilation—weighed on him, stirring old memories best left buried.
Occasionally, Gao Tianrong glanced at his companions. Yin Feiyan, face drawn from pain and fatigue, slept uneasily with her good arm tucked around the relic. Lan Zhuoran, the earnest youth from Baihe, breathed softly, brow creased as if wrestling with dreams of conflict. A pang of empathy flickered in Gao's chest; neither deserved the relentless danger thrust upon them.
Hours passed in silence. Then, near midnight, a faint sound drifted on the wind—like hushed movement across stone. Gao Tianrong tensed, stringing an arrow in one fluid motion. His hearing, honed by countless nights on alert, detected soft footsteps in the gorge. He dared not move from his post; the slightest sound might betray their location.
The noise grew closer, accompanied by hushed voices. There had to be at least two or three people. Gao Tianrong's pulse quickened. Could the Syndicate have found them already? The archer contemplated waking his allies but hesitated—if it was a small scouting party, an ambush might be better than a frantic flight.
Peering around the boulder, Gao Tianrong caught a glimpse of figures moving in the shadows below the overhang. Moonlight slid over steel—swords or spears, he couldn't tell. The men paused briefly, whispering to one another, then continued on. Their footsteps receded, fading into the darkness.
Gao Tianrong lowered his bow, heart pounding. They might have been mercenaries or possibly bandits roving the hills. Either way, the group hadn't noticed the small camp. He stayed absolutely still, waiting until he could no longer detect even an echo of their presence. Only then did he ease back, exhaling quietly.
By the time he shifted from the post, his muscles felt stiff. He shook off the tension and crouched near Lan Zhuoran, placing a hand on his shoulder. The young man stirred instantly, eyes snapping open. "What—?"
"Shh," Gao Tianrong whispered. "Might have been Syndicate scouts. They didn't find us, but keep your guard up when it's your turn."
Lan Zhuoran nodded, face paling. He rose, quietly gathering his composure as Gao Tianrong explained the brief encounter. Together, they decided against waking Yin Feiyan yet—she needed rest more than anything. Lan Zhuoran would stand watch for the remainder of the night, ready to alert the others at any sign of danger.
Gao Tianrong sank onto a patch of flattened grass, exhaustion tugging at him. His eyes felt heavy, but his mind churned with concern. He had glimpsed the Syndicate's brutality firsthand—he doubted they would relent. With a small grunt, he let himself drift into a light doze, trusting Lan Zhuoran's vigilance.
—
Lan Zhuoran perched behind a small boulder, the dim embers illuminating his silhouette. The gorge had fallen silent again, save for the soft murmur of wind skirting the rock walls. He replayed Gao Tianrong's warning in his mind. If Syndicate scouts were indeed nearby, they had to be one misstep away from a confrontation.
Cradling the hilt of a short blade, Lan Zhuoran focused on the rhythm of his breathing. His father's words about maintaining clarity surfaced: "A warrior who can control his breath can control his fear." He inhaled deeply, steadying his pulse.
Time crawled. An owl hooted in the distance, punctuating the stillness. Lan Zhuoran allowed his gaze to sweep across the narrow gorge—dark shapes of boulders, the faint outline of scruffy shrubs. Nothing else stirred. Despite the tension, a part of him found solace in the stillness, recalling the tranquil nights back in Baihe. At least here, the sky remained vast and unbroken by city lights.
Eventually, the night waned, stars retreating before the soft glow of predawn. The chill air nipped at Lan Zhuoran's cheeks, and he shivered, pulling his cloak tighter. In the meager light, he could just make out Yin Feiyan's slumbering form and Gao Tianrong's motionless shape. Neither stirred.
At last, a subtle gray tinted the horizon. Lan Zhuoran stood, stretching muscles knotted by hours of watchfulness. He moved quietly to the camp's center, blowing on the embers to kindle a faint flame. The red glow brightened, pushing back the worst of the cold.
A stirring behind him announced Yin Feiyan's awakening. She rose stiffly, hand instinctively checking the relic at her side. Her eyes found Lan Zhuoran, and a silent question flickered in her gaze. He shook his head, indicating no direct threat had come in the night. She exhaled relief, though her posture remained guarded.
Moments later, Gao Tianrong too awoke, amber eyes flicking around in a quick survey. Seeing no immediate danger, he relaxed slightly, rolling his shoulders. "Morning," he muttered, though the word felt hollow in these lawless hills.
Yin Feiyan settled by the small flame, rotating her injured arm carefully. "Did you see or hear anything else?" she asked Lan Zhuoran.
He recounted the faint footsteps Gao Tianrong had heard, explaining no confrontation occurred. She nodded grimly, a shadow crossing her face. "This means we might be moving among Syndicate patrol routes. We have to be more careful."
Gao Tianrong frowned, running a hand over his short hair. "Agreed. We'll move again soon. After some distance, we can circle around. I know a route that might skirt their usual patrol patterns."
They shared a hasty breakfast—little more than cold water and a bit of dried rations. Then they smothered the embers and re-packed their gear. The mule brayed softly as Lan Zhuoran secured its saddle. Before they departed, Yin Feiyan paused, leaning against the rock wall with her eyes closed. Perhaps she was gathering strength or whispering a silent prayer.
Then, with no further delay, they set off once more. The sky had brightened enough to reveal the complex maze of hills and scattered gorges before them. Gao Tianrong led the way, carefully scanning for tracks or signs of Syndicate camps. Yin Feiyan, relic tucked under her cloak, followed. Lan Zhuoran brought up the rear, guiding the mule through rocky passes. The gloom of the previous night lingered in their minds, but the first rays of sunlight offered a fragile sense of hope.
Yet each step weighed heavier with the knowledge that the Syndicate scoured these lands. And beyond that threat, the ultimate question loomed: Would they manage to reach the capital before the relic fell into the wrong hands? For now, all they could do was keep walking, shoulders braced against fear, hearts set on a future free from the shadow of Skyfire Protocol's devastating potential.