The night passed without an attack, though none slept soundly. At dawn, they found themselves in a rugged area marked by peculiar rock formations—pillars and arches carved by centuries of wind. Lan Zhuoran awakened to the sight of Gao Tianrong perched atop a boulder, keeping watch with unwavering intensity. Yin Feiyan stirred against a larger stone, carefully flexing her arm, which looked marginally better.
After a quick, spartan breakfast, they set out again. This region, while still untamed, felt distinct from the earlier canyons and hills—almost like a realm shaped by ancient forces. Tall rock spires loomed, their shadows stretching like fingers across the ground. A hush suffused the air, as if the wind itself respected the primordial silence.
Yin Feiyan's gaze roamed the towering arches. "My mentor once mentioned an old legend," she murmured, voice subdued. "That these lands were once home to a powerful cultivation sect… centuries ago, maybe longer. They built temples and stored relics in hidden caves. Some say the land still holds echoes of their qi."
Lan Zhuoran brushed a hand along the weathered stone. He felt no tangible burst of energy, but a faint tingle rippled along his skin. His father's tales came rushing back: stories of ancient clans that merged technology with spiritual arts, leaving behind wonders scattered across Longxia. "Could it be connected to artifacts like Skyfire Protocol?"
"Possibly," Yin Feiyan said, shifting the relic under her cloak. "My mentor believed the Empire's patchwork of advanced tech and cultivation disciplines grew from these hidden enclaves, scattered by wars and greed. Now we're… piecing it back together, I suppose."
Gao Tianrong hopped down from a low ledge. "If any of that is true, we should be extra wary. People still poke around old ruins searching for forgotten weapons or knowledge. Bandits, unscrupulous clans, the Syndicate… they all dream of striking gold."
Lan Zhuoran exhaled. "Let's hope we find no such ruin, then. We have enough to worry about."
They navigated the rocky labyrinth, the mule's hooves echoing in the uncanny quiet. Occasionally, they glimpsed unusual glyphs etched into eroded pillars—symbolic lines or swirling motifs. Yin Feiyan's eyes lingered on them, but the script was too faded to decipher. Each discovery deepened the sense of stepping into a lost chapter of history.
By midday, the sun blazed overhead, and they chose a shady alcove under a naturally formed stone arch to rest. Gao Tianrong scouted for potential threats while Lan Zhuoran tended Yin Feiyan's arm again. The color looked less inflamed, thanks in part to the bits of wild herbs they'd gathered. She mustered a tight smile when he applied fresh bandages.
"Thank you," she said softly, stifling a groan. "I wish I could carry my weight more. I hate feeling like a burden."
He shook his head. "You're the reason we're pressing forward—this relic could help countless people, right? We're in this together."
Her expression softened, gratitude mixing with guilt. Before she could reply, Gao Tianrong returned, panting slightly. "Saw fresh footprints to the west—maybe four or five people. Not sure if it's Syndicate, but I don't want to chance it."
They sprang into motion, gathering supplies. The labyrinth of pillars offered plenty of cover, yet also plenty of ways to get lost or ambushed. Keeping a brisk pace, they pressed deeper into the winding trails. The sunlight took on a golden hue as afternoon advanced, giving the rocks a surreal glow.
Occasionally, they heard distant echoes—like voices carried by the wind. Lan Zhuoran's pulse quickened every time, half-expecting mercenaries to appear from behind a monolith. But each time, the noise faded, leaving them alone in the ancient hush.
Eventually, they stumbled upon a larger clearing, ringed by tall spires forming a natural stone circle. A thick sense of presence weighed on Lan Zhuoran's chest. It reminded him of stepping into an abandoned shrine, though no altars or structures remained. Vegetation sprouted in tangled mats near cracks in the rock, and a scattering of broken stones suggested there once might have been columns or statues here.
Yin Feiyan paused, scanning the area with parted lips. "My mentor told me this region was once called the 'Valley of Echoes,' a place where certain clans practiced elemental arts. Could we be standing in one of their old training grounds?"
Gao Tianrong threw a wary glance around. "Interesting lore, but we can't linger. The Syndicate might be right behind us."
Lan Zhuoran moved forward, curiosity warring with caution. A breeze stirred, making the tall spires groan softly, as though voicing an ancient lament. He felt a subtle shift in the air, a faint prickle along his arms—almost as if the old cultivation energies still lingered. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine warriors practicing forms, harnessing both spirit and advanced technology in perfect harmony.
Yin Feiyan, as if drawn by the same invisible current, took a few steps into the clearing. She raised her good hand, feeling for something intangible. For a moment, the tension in her face lifted. "I can sense… a trace of qi. It's faint, but it's there."
Gao Tianrong coughed, breaking the spell. "No time for daydreams. Let's keep moving."
Yet as they tried to leave the circle, the mule abruptly balked, ears flattened. The animal snorted, stamping the ground. Lan Zhuoran pulled the reins gently. "Come on, easy now—"
A sudden commotion broke the silence. Figures emerged from behind two of the spires—three men and a woman, each armed with swords or spears. Their cloaks bore no Syndicate wolf emblem, but their hardened expressions suggested bandits, at the very least. One man, tall and scarred, stepped forward, blade glinting in the afternoon sun.
"Travelers," he growled. "And you've brought a beast of burden loaded with goods. Hand over everything, and we might let you live."
Lan Zhuoran's heart sank. They couldn't afford another fight. Yin Feiyan's grip tightened on the relic. Gao Tianrong, face set, eased an arrow onto his bowstring. The bandits spread out, blocking escape routes. A chilling hush enveloped the ancient ring of stones—faded echoes of lost legends overshadowed by the threat of immediate violence.
Lan Zhuoran swallowed, sliding into a defensive stance reminiscent of the Five-Winds Form. He glanced at Yin Feiyan, who returned a resolute nod. We can't let them take the relic, he thought fiercely. Even if they were just bandits and not Syndicate agents, losing Skyfire Protocol would doom her mission.
The tall bandit sneered. "What's it going to be, strangers? Surrender your gear, or do you have a death wish?"
Yin Feiyan answered quietly, voice steeled. "We're not surrendering."
A tense heartbeat passed. Then steel clashed on stone as the bandits charged, and the circle of ancient pillars echoed with the ring of a new battle.