The night passed in tense silence, broken only by the distant rumble of thunder and the occasional rustle of wildlife. Huddled under a shallow overhang on the plateau, Lan Zhuoran, Yin Feiyan, and Gao Tianrong took turns keeping watch. Despite the exhaustion from the harrowing escape in the ravine, none of them found deep rest. Every snapping twig or gust of wind seemed to whisper of Syndicate scouts inching closer.
By early dawn, they emerged from fitful sleep with sore limbs and weary minds. A pale light crept over the horizon, painting the rocky plateau in cool grays. Yin Feiyan stirred, pressing a hand to her injured arm. Though the swelling had reduced somewhat from the previous herbal treatments, her movements remained stiff. She mustered a faint smile when she caught Lan Zhuoran's worried gaze.
"Don't look at me like I'm on death's door," she teased in a strained voice. "We've survived worse."
Lan Zhuoran exhaled a soft laugh, relief mingling with concern. "I guess we have." Next to them, Gao Tianrong shook out his cloak and inspected his quiver, counting the arrows. He then helped Lan Zhuoran check the mule for injuries, though it seemed the beast had escaped serious harm despite yesterday's near catastrophe on the ledge.
"Whatever skirmish that was," Gao Tianrong said grimly, "the Syndicate's bound to regroup. We should move before they send more patrols."
Yin Feiyan pulled herself to her feet with a wince. "Any idea which route we take next?"
Lan Zhuoran recalled Gao Tianrong's earlier suggestion to head southeast toward farmland. "If we continue southeast, we might find a clearer path eventually."
Gao Tianrong arched an eyebrow. "We're edging closer to known Syndicate territory. But yes, farmland roads might be safer for the mule, and we might avoid canyons where ambushes are easier. Let's do it."
So they set off in the early light, descending from the plateau. The terrain shifted from rocky outcrops to rolling fields dotted with coarse grass. Pale morning rays offered modest warmth after the cold night. Occasionally, they caught glimpses of foxes or wild hares darting away through the brush, as though nature itself withdrew from human strife.
While they walked, Lan Zhuoran tried to ease Yin Feiyan's burden by supporting her whenever the path grew rough. She accepted his help reluctantly, still chafing at the idea of appearing weak. Gao Tianrong maintained a vigilant lead, scanning each rise and hollow for potential threats.
By midday, they reached a small stream trickling between two shallow banks. Relieved, they paused to let the mule drink and to refill their waterskins. The sun climbed overhead, warming their shoulders. For once, no immediate signs of pursuit marred the horizon.
Yin Feiyan settled on a flat stone near the stream, resting her arm. A gentle breeze stirred her hair. "Feels… almost peaceful," she murmured, closing her eyes.
Lan Zhuoran hesitated, uncertain if he should encourage her to rest longer. But before he could speak, Gao Tianrong approached, bow in hand. "I scouted the next ridge. There's a dirt track leading east. Might be part of an old trade route. Could be faster than wandering aimlessly."
They agreed to follow the track, hoping for an unguarded route. As they resumed their journey, Lan Zhuoran occasionally glimpsed shapes in the distance—a single tree here, a ruined cabin there—reminders of a once-thriving countryside. The silent remnants of civilization felt eerie, as though ghosts might watch them from every broken doorway.
Afternoon shadows grew long, but the day remained mercifully free of Syndicate interference. Their pace, however, began to slow. Yin Feiyan's breathing grew labored, and Gao Tianrong's stiff posture suggested hidden aches. Even the mule shuffled tiredly, hooves kicking up dusty clods. Desperate to find a decent resting spot before nightfall, they pressed on.
Near dusk, they spotted the faint outline of a wooden shack in the distance, perched on a gentle slope. Heart leaping with cautious hope, Lan Zhuoran led the way. As they neared, the shack revealed itself to be little more than a dilapidated shepherd's hut—roof half-collapsed, door missing. Yet it promised some shelter against the incoming darkness.
They approached carefully, Gao Tianrong circling to check for fresh footprints or signs of bandits. Satisfied, he beckoned them in. Inside, dust coated the floor, and a gaping hole in the ceiling let in a pale beam of sunset light. Still, it beat sleeping under open skies. The trio guided the mule into a corner, setting up a makeshift barricade at the door.
Lan Zhuoran gathered stray bits of wood for a small fire. Yin Feiyan, seated on a crate, eyed her wound with weary resignation. "We're using up our herbs quickly," she noted. "But at least I'm stable for now."
Gao Tianrong nodded, then peered at the horizon through the gap in the wall. "It's too quiet. The Syndicate might be regrouping somewhere else, or they might be closer than we think."
Lan Zhuoran knelt by the fire, struggling to coax flames from damp tinder. "We can't do anything but stay alert. If they attack, we fight—or we flee again."
A hush settled as orange sparks caught, flickering to life. The shack's shadows danced ominously on the warped walls. Feiyan's gaze lingered on the relic strapped securely under mule blankets, her thoughts veiled behind tired eyes. Lan Zhuoran sensed her unease—each day of flight weighed more heavily on her spirit.
Night arrived with a whisper, the sky streaked pink and purple through the broken roof. Gao Tianrong volunteered for first watch, as usual, taking position near the door. The small fire crackled, offering scant warmth. Lan Zhuoran helped Feiyan rewrap her arm, wishing he had better medical supplies. She offered him a brave smile, though exhaustion dulled its edge.
Before long, she drifted into shallow sleep. Lan Zhuoran, leaning against a damaged wall, fought his own weariness. The memory of yesterday's ravine battle replayed in his mind—crossbow bolts, jagged ledges, the terror of nearly losing the mule. Every step we take feels like borrowed time, he thought, clenching his fists. But if we can just reach the capital…
Drifting between consciousness and half-dreams, he recalled Baihe Village again—the scent of rice fields, Auntie Qiu's gentle voice. He'd vowed to protect that simple life for others, no matter the cost. Gazing at Feiyan's sleeping form, he renewed that promise. The relic in her care might be key to preventing greater havoc.
Midnight approached, the hut creaking in the wind. Gao Tianrong occasionally scanned the darkness, his posture tense. Yet no threats emerged. Perhaps for this one night, fortune favored them with relative peace. Tomorrow, the roads would beckon once more, and the Syndicate's shadow would loom again. But for now, the silent hush cradled their battered hopes, granting them a fragile reprieve beneath the broken shack's roof.