The morning sun filtered through tall pines, casting elongated beams on the forest floor. Lan Zhuoran stood on a stump, loosening his limbs with gentle motions of the Five-Winds Form. Each sweep of his arms coaxed out tension from his battered ribs. Nearby, Yin Feiyan practiced small rotations of her splinted arm, grimacing at each jolt of discomfort, yet refusing to let it rule her.
Gao Tianrong, crouched by the dying fire, carefully dismantled the makeshift hearth. "No sense leaving a trail," he said quietly, sprinkling dirt to ensure the embers died completely.
They soon gathered their packs, the mule stamping the soft ground, eager to move on. With a final check of the campsite, they resumed the eastern route, trudging through the pine forest until midday. Now and then, Gao Tianrong paused at rustling bushes or distant cracks of branches, but no threat materialized.
Eventually, the pines thinned, revealing a broad, rolling plain. The day's heat pressed down, though not as fiercely as weeks prior. Autumn's subtle presence drifted in cooler breezes, rustling dried grass. Feiyan caught sight of a small herd of deer bounding away across the plains, a glimpse of life untainted by war's shadow.
As the afternoon wore on, they spotted a few wind-beaten farms in the distance—isolated homesteads that might or might not still be occupied. Gao Tianrong suggested they approach one, hoping to trade for fresh vegetables or glean news. Lan Zhuoran and Feiyan agreed, though warily—one couldn't assume any farm was safe or welcoming these days.
They veered off the main track, crossing uneven ground until they reached a rickety fence circling a small farmhouse. A single cow grazed in a pen, and thin smoke drifted from a crooked chimney. Lan Zhuoran halted at the gate, calling out, "Hello! We mean no harm—just travelers."
An old woman emerged from the doorway, stooped and weathered. She eyed them warily, but the presence of Feiyan—injured yet polite—seemed to allay her fears. "What do you want?" her voice rasped.
Feiyan stepped forward, staff helping steady her. "We're traveling east. We hoped to buy or trade for any spare produce or grains."
The old woman snorted, glancing at the meager fields behind her. "Spare? Huh. Times are hard. You have coin?"
Gao Tianrong withdrew a small pouch, courtesy of Lord Zhou's parting gift. "We can pay a little. And we'll cause no trouble."
She squinted at the pouch, then beckoned them closer, leading them around the farmhouse to a lean-to where she stored potatoes and turnips. The produce looked shriveled but edible. Lan Zhuoran, heart heavy at the sight of such scarcity, handed over a few coins. The old woman grudgingly counted them, then wrapped the vegetables in a cloth.
Before they left, Feiyan asked quietly, "Do you know anything about the roads east?"
The woman snorted again. "Bandits rove. Some villages burn. Heard talk of a big warlord near the capital mustering forces—Zhang the Iron-Heart, or something. Don't know about wolves or black cloaks, though. I stay out of it."
Feiyan nodded politely, a chill running through her. Another warlord massing troops. Another obstacle. Gao Tianrong thanked the old woman for the produce. She merely shrugged, retreating into her farmhouse. The travelers departed, burdened with turnips and the weight of fresh rumors.
Night caught up to them under open skies, no trees or rocky outcrops in sight. They pitched camp on a small rise, the grasses swaying around them. Gao Tianrong dug a shallow pit for a fire, hoping the gentle slope might let them spot any threat from afar. Feiyan reclined, carefully extending her arm. Lan Zhuoran prepared a simple stew with the turnips.
As the stew bubbled, a tense hush settled. They each sensed the shifting currents in the empire—warlords, mercenaries, displaced peasants, desperate bandits. Feiyan cast a weary gaze at the relic beneath her cloak. "We're close to the final stretch, aren't we? The capital can't be too far beyond these plains."
Lan Zhuoran stirred the stew, nodding. "We must remain cautious. If war brews around the capital, the Syndicate might be waiting, or rival clans. We can't show the relic openly."
Gao Tianrong listened in silence, cleaning his bow. Then he spoke, voice low. "If we do reach the council, do you truly trust them? Artifacts like Skyfire Protocol can tempt even the righteous."
Feiyan's eyes flickered with doubt, but she pressed her lips firm. "My mentor believed in them. I have to try. They're the best chance to keep the relic safe."
Lan Zhuoran ladled stew into wooden bowls, distributing it carefully. The warmth filled their bellies, a small comfort in an uncertain land. The moon rose, silvering the plains and lending their campsite a fragile sense of peace. Gao Tianrong took first watch again, arrow lying across his lap.
Feiyan dozed in a restless slumber, dreams likely haunted by images of armies marching under black flags. Lan Zhuoran remained half-awake, staff at his side, the night wind whispering across tall grass. Each day now brought them closer to the capital—and closer to the empire's roiling heart.
Yet a stubborn hope pulsed in Lan Zhuoran's chest. Despite all they'd witnessed, despite chaos consuming entire villages, he believed in Feiyan's cause. The relic's power, used wisely, might break the cycle of destruction. Silently, he vowed not to falter until he saw her mission through.
As dawn's first hint lit the horizon, the trio stirred, shoulders stiff but resolve unbroken. Another day beckoned with both peril and promise, and they rose to meet it, turnips and relic in tow, forging a path where few dared tread.