The sun climbed higher, baking the plains into a shimmering expanse. Lan Zhuoran wiped sweat from his brow, reminding himself to conserve water. Gao Tianrong led the mule, scanning every ridge with hawk-like vigilance. Yin Feiyan's grip tightened on the relic beneath her cloak, unsettled by the oppressive stillness of the day.
By midday, they descended into a shallow valley dotted with withered bushes and dry streambeds. Despite the unrelenting heat, Lan Zhuoran noticed fresh footprints in the dust—hoofprints, too, indicating mounted riders had passed through recently. Alarm jolted him. Bandits? Or worse, Syndicate patrols?
They pressed on carefully, pace slowed by caution. Suddenly, a faint clang of steel echoed from behind a low rise. Gao Tianrong motioned for silence, and the trio dropped into a crouch, guiding the mule behind a rocky outcrop. Hearts pounding, they crept forward to peer over the ridge.
Below, at the valley's center, a pitched skirmish unfolded. Two groups—one bearing mismatched armor, the other wearing rough uniforms—clashed in a swirling melee of swords and spears. Dust rose in choking clouds, and battle cries rang out. No black-wolf emblem was visible, but Lan Zhuoran recognized the ferocity of mercenary combat.
Feiyan's eyes widened. "They're fighting over something… or perhaps crossing paths. Either way, it's chaos."
Gao Tianrong's grip on his bow tightened. "Let's circle around. If they spot us, we'll get drawn in."
Lan Zhuoran nodded, though a pang of guilt struck him—someone down there might need help. But they had no stake in a random brawl. Besides, Feiyan's wound still limited her. If the fight spread, they'd face needless danger. Steeling themselves, the trio eased back, taking a wide arc around the battlefield.
Yet the din of battle proved to have far reach. Shouts escalated, and soon, a mounted mercenary spotted their silhouettes on the ridge. A harsh cry rang out, prompting several riders to peel away from the melee, galloping toward them. Lan Zhuoran's pulse surged. They had to move—fast.
Gao Tianrong sprang into action, loosing an arrow at the lead rider. The projectile struck the man's shoulder, sending him reeling in the saddle. Another rider closed in, brandishing a curved blade. Lan Zhuoran rushed to meet him, staff poised. Feiyan, clenching her teeth, maneuvered behind a boulder, cradling the relic protectively.
Hoofbeats thundered. Lan Zhuoran sidestepped the rider's slash, pivoting into a low sweep that knocked the mercenary off balance. The horse neighed in panic, and the man tumbled off, cursing. Gao Tianrong took a second shot, forcing a third rider to swerve aside. Dust filled the air.
Three more dismounted fighters sprinted up the slope, likely hoping to flank the trio. Feiyan exhaled shakily, her injured arm protesting every movement. Summoning her will, she gripped a dagger in her good hand, scanning for threats. Her wound might limit her, but she refused to be helpless.
Lan Zhuoran spun, staff colliding with a mercenary's spear. Sparks flew as steel grazed the staff's metal inlays. Summoning the fluid power of the Five-Winds Form, he knocked the spear aside and delivered a precise strike to the mercenary's midsection. The man staggered, wheezing.
Gao Tianrong drew back, firing an arrow that whistled past Lan Zhuoran's shoulder, striking an attacker behind him. The synergy between them kept the mercenaries at bay, though outnumbered. Another slash came dangerously close to Lan Zhuoran's side, opening a shallow cut that stung in the dusty air.
Feiyan felt her breath catch. Three men still advanced. She threw her dagger at the closest mercenary, the blade nicking his shoulder. Though he roared in pain, he kept coming. Fear mingled with fierce resolve in Feiyan's heart. I can't fail now…
Suddenly, a bellow rose from the valley. The second group—perhaps enemies of these mercenaries—charged up the slope as well. Chaos reigned, swords clashing, shouts echoing. The mercenaries split, some turning to fight the newcomers. Lan Zhuoran seized the momentary distraction to slam his staff into the last rider attacking him, toppling him from the saddle.
"Retreat!" Gao Tianrong shouted, voice rasping. "They're too many!"
Lan Zhuoran reached Feiyan, who trembled from strain, her splint barely holding as she clutched the relic. He helped her to her feet, ignoring the burn of his own shallow wound. Gao Tianrong kept an arrow trained on any fighter that dared close in. Together, they staggered east, skirting the edge of the melee.
The second faction barreled into the mercenaries with brutal force, oblivious to the trio's escape. Yells merged with clangs of steel, each side seeking dominance in the dust-choked valley. Lan Zhuoran's heart thundered as he guided Feiyan and the mule through the swirling chaos. More riders galloped by, locked in combat, paying little heed to three strangers fleeing the battlefield.
At last, the trio broke free, sprinting up a slope where the battle's roar faded behind them. Blood trickled down Lan Zhuoran's side, and Feiyan fought to steady her breathing. Gao Tianrong panted, arrow still nocked. They dared not stop until the clamor of fighting became a distant echo. Once it did, they collapsed behind a rocky ridge, hearts pounding.
Feiyan slumped against the stone, face pale. "W-what… was that about?"
Gao Tianrong wiped sweat from his brow. "Mercenaries warring, or bandits fighting a local militia. Doesn't matter. War brews in every corner."
Lan Zhuoran pressed a hand to his wound, hissing softly. "We barely escaped. We need to keep away from large conflicts like this or we'll be swallowed whole."
His words hung in the dusty air, the stench of blood and fear lingering on the breeze. Feiyan nodded shakily, arms wrapped protectively around the relic. Gao Tianrong agreed, eyes flicking east. Another skirmish, another reminder that the path to the capital lay strewn with chaos. Yet they had no choice but to continue. The artifact's future—and maybe the empire's—depended on it.