By midday, the trio—Lan Zhuoran, Yin Feiyan, and Gao Tianrong—had put several miles between themselves and Lord Zhou's estate. The terrain shifted into a series of rolling foothills, dotted with rocky outcroppings and sparse clusters of trees. Clouds drifted overhead in lazy formation, offering occasional patches of shade from the early autumn sun.
They paused at a low ridge to rest and check on Feiyan's arm. Though the estate's fresh bandages and salves had helped, she still struggled to keep her limb steady. Lan Zhuoran gently helped remove the splint, letting her flex her elbow. She winced but murmured, "It's improving. The swelling's down."
Gao Tianrong, ever watchful, scanned the horizon with a distant frown. "If we continue at this pace, we might reach the outer hills near the capital in a week or two. Assuming we're not caught in any war or ambush."
Lan Zhuoran exhaled, recalling the chaotic skirmish they narrowly avoided. "We should stay vigilant. Warbands could roam anywhere."
Feiyan adjusted the relic beneath her cloak, the faint weight a constant reminder of their mission. So many battles, so much despair—yet her resolve held firm. She offered a tired smile to Lan Zhuoran. "Let's keep going. Every day we delay, the Syndicate might gain more ground."
They pressed on, descending into a shallow valley rimmed by stunted pines. The path showed signs of old wagon tracks, though recent traffic seemed scarce. Once or twice, they glimpsed distant columns of smoke, likely other estates or small villages enduring their own struggles.
Late afternoon brought them to a crossroads marked by a broken signpost. Faded letters suggested one route led eastward, while another curved south. Gao Tianrong inspected the footprints in the dust—light and scattered, maybe a week old. "Minimal traffic," he muttered. "Fewer eyes on us, at least."
Choosing the eastern track, they continued until dusk tinted the sky with fiery hues. A stand of tall pines provided a suitable campsite, the ground cushioned by fallen needles. They built a small fire, feeling the temperature drop as evening set in. Feiyan, weary from the day's travel, gingerly removed her splint again, letting the cooler air soothe her tender skin.
Lan Zhuoran rummaged in their packs for provisions. Thanks to Lord Zhou's generosity, they had replenished food and water, though not lavishly. A handful of dried meats, a small pouch of rice, and a few root vegetables offered a simple dinner. Gao Tianrong set about boiling a pot of water, while Feiyan dozed against a fallen log, fighting the ache in her arm.
Night descended, the fire crackling in gentle camaraderie. Overhead, stars shimmered between swaying pine branches. Gao Tianrong stirred the pot, releasing a faint aroma of stew. Lan Zhuoran rolled his shoulders, wincing as his side reminded him of the still-healing slash from days before.
Feiyan roused, drawn by the food's scent. "Smells heavenly," she murmured, voice heavy with fatigue.
Gao Tianrong served small portions into tin cups. "Eat slowly. We can't afford stomach aches with limited supplies."
They savored the humble meal, each bite a reminder that they still lived. Feiyan's face softened, relief flickering across her features. "A real hot meal… it's been too long."
Lan Zhuoran nodded, recalling their dire thirst in the wastelands. We've come far, he told himself. We can endure more if we must. Outside the camp's glow, the forest loomed in silent watch, no immediate threats lurking.
After dinner, Gao Tianrong volunteered for the first watch. Feiyan helped clean up the makeshift cooking pot, ignoring the dull throbbing in her arm. Lan Zhuoran set their bedding near the fire, mindful of possible night intruders. The pines whispered overhead, a gentle lullaby in the otherwise tense world.
As Lan Zhuoran lay down, half-lidded eyes drifting over the dancing flames, he recalled the faces of those they'd aided: the refugee caravan, Lord Zhou and his staff, even the bandits forced into desperate raids. Each reflected the empire's unraveling in their own way. Protecting Skyfire Protocol might not mend every wound, but if the relic fell into the right hands, perhaps the empire could find a path back to stability.
Sleep claimed him in patches, haunted by half-dreams of black-clad mercenaries and warlords' banners. When Gao Tianrong nudged him awake for the second watch, the fire had burned low, embers glowing like crimson eyes. Feiyan slept nearby, brow creased in restless slumber. Lan Zhuoran rose, staff in hand, and stationed himself at the forest's edge, listening to owls hoot among the pines.
Hours slipped by. No threat emerged, and in that hush, he found a moment of clarity. He resolved to keep faith—faith in Feiyan's recovery, in Gao Tianrong's skill, in his own evolving mastery of the Five-Winds Form. Dawn would soon break, and with it, another step eastward, one foot in front of the other, forging a trail of defiance against the empire's chaos.