The Ye Clan woke to a dawn stained with unease. The air carried a faint tang of smoke, drifting from the woods beyond the estate—a whisper of trouble that set Ye Ling's jaw tight and Ye Qing's hands fidgeting with his dented spear. Zhan Tian—still Lin Feng to their eyes—stood by the reinforced western wall, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Lin Hao's humiliated retreat had been a spark, and sparks, he knew, drew moths. Or wolves.
Inside, his divine soul thrummed, the seal's fracture widening with each pulse of qi he'd coaxed free. Lin Hao's clumsy attack had stirred it—a brush of mortal energy against the cage of a god. The trickle of power was growing, a stream carving through stone. He flexed his fingers, feeling the faint strength returning to this frail shell. Not enough to sunder mountains—not yet—but enough to break men.
Ye Chen limped up beside him, his stick tapping a rhythm on the tiles. "You're too calm," he said, his sharp eyes narrowing. "Lin Hao won't let yesterday slide. He's a brat, but he's got the Lin Clan's pride behind him."
"Let him come," Zhan Tian said, his tone flat. "Pride's a heavy burden. Makes you stumble."
Ye Chen snorted. "And what's your burden, Lin Feng? You've got no fear in you. That's not normal."
Zhan Tian glanced at him, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "Fear's for those who don't know what's coming. I've seen enough to guess."
Before Ye Chen could press, Ye Ling's shout cut through the morning. "Smoke's thicker! Something's burning—close!" She sprinted from the gate, dagger in hand, her tangled hair whipping behind her.
Ye Qing rallied the clan, barking orders as Ye Hua ushered the young ones inside. Zhan Tian followed Ye Ling to the edge of the woods, where the stench of charred wood hit like a fist. A plume of black rose from a clearing a quarter-mile out—the remains of a Ye Clan storage shed, its pitiful stash of grain and tools now ash. Figures moved in the haze: ten, maybe twelve, their silhouettes jagged with blades and malice.
"Bandits," Ye Ling hissed, gripping her dagger. "Same bastards from before. They're back for blood."
Zhan Tian's eyes narrowed. Not just blood—retribution. Lin Hao's humiliation had rippled, and these rats had sniffed opportunity. "How many can you take?" he asked, voice low.
She glared at him. "Two, maybe three if I'm quick. You?"
"Enough," he said, stepping forward. "Get the others. I'll slow them."
"You'll die!" she snapped, but he was already moving, his frail frame slipping into the trees like a shadow. Ye Ling cursed, then bolted back to the estate.
Zhan Tian crept closer, his qi threading through his senses—sharpening his sight, his hearing. The bandits were a ragged lot, their leader a broad-shouldered brute with a scarred face and a mace dangling from his belt. He barked orders, his voice gravelly with glee. "Burn it all! The Ye dogs think they can fight? We'll leave 'em nothing but bones!"
A scout spotted Zhan Tian first, a wiry man with a bow. "Oi! One of 'em's here!" He nocked an arrow, loosing it with a twang. Zhan Tian shifted—a subtle tilt of his torso—and the shaft whistled past, burying itself in a tree. The bandits laughed, closing in like hyenas.
"Lost, little lamb?" the leader sneered, hefting his mace. "Run back to your hole before I crack your skull."
Zhan Tian stood still, his muddy eyes glinting. "You're loud," he said. "Makes you slow."
The leader roared, charging with his mace raised. Zhan Tian let his qi flare—just a breath, a flicker no mortal could sense. He stepped aside, his foot hooking the brute's ankle. The man crashed face-first into the dirt, his mace skidding away. The bandits froze, then surged forward, blades flashing.
Zhan Tian moved like water—slow to their eyes, but precise as a god's wrath. He ducked a sword, palming a stone from the ground. A flick of his wrist sent it cracking into a bandit's knee, dropping him with a scream. Another swung an axe; Zhan Tian caught the haft mid-strike, twisting it free and slamming the butt into the man's jaw. Two down, eight to go.
The leader staggered up, spitting blood. "Kill him! Now!"
Zhan Tian smiled—a cold, fleeting thing—and unleashed the array he'd prepared. He'd palmed more stones on his way, scratching runes into them with a fingernail. He tossed them in a loose circle, whispering a command. The air shimmered, and three bandits stumbled, their legs buckling as the ward sapped their strength. He darted through the chaos, a shadow among fools, tripping one into another, breaking a wrist with a casual twist.
By the time Ye Ling returned with Ye Qing and Ye Chen, six bandits lay groaning in the dirt, the rest fleeing into the woods. The leader knelt, clutching a shattered arm, his mace useless beside him. Ye Ling stared, her dagger slack in her hand. "What… how?"
"Got lucky," Zhan Tian said, brushing dirt from his tunic. "They're sloppy."
Ye Qing laughed, a raw, desperate sound. "Lucky? You're a damn miracle, Lin Feng!"
The leader glared up, his voice a rasp. "You're dead, all of you. The Black Claw won't forget this!"
Zhan Tian crouched before him, his gaze piercing. "Tell your Black Claw they picked the wrong prey. Go."
The man scrambled up, limping after his men. Ye Qing clapped Zhan Tian's shoulder. "You've got steel in you, lad. More than I thought."
"Steel's forged," Zhan Tian said, turning away. "This was just heat."
Back at the estate, the Ye Clan gathered around the fire, their meager meal bolstered by a bandit's dropped sack of dried meat. Ye Hua pressed a bowl into Zhan Tian's hands, her eyes wet. "You saved us again. I don't know how to thank you."
"Stay alive," he said, taking the bowl. "That's enough."
Ye Ling sat across from him, her smirk sharp. "You fight like a ghost. Where'd a wanderer learn that?"
"Bad places," he replied, meeting her stare. "You'd do the same, with practice."
She huffed but didn't argue. Ye Chen watched in silence, his mind clearly turning. Zhan Tian let them wonder. Doubt was a seed—let it grow, and they'd seek his guidance.
That night, he slipped into the woods alone, a handful of herbs from the day's foraging in his pocket. He found a hollowed tree, its roots a natural cradle, and sat cross-legged within. The seal within him thrummed louder now, its fracture a jagged line he could almost grasp. He crushed the herbs—ginseng, bitterroot—into a paste, swallowing it raw. The qi in them was faint, a candle to his past bonfires, but it stirred his meridians. He guided the energy, slow and deliberate, weaving it into his bones, his blood. Pain lanced through him—mortal flesh resisting divine will—but he pushed harder. The seal cracked further, a sliver of golden light bleeding into his soul.
He exhaled, sweat beading on his brow. Stronger. Not much, but enough to feel the echo of who he'd been. Heaven's Fang slicing through a god's throat. Tian Xu's treacherous grin. The memory fueled him, sharpening his resolve.
A twig snapped. He opened his eyes to find Ye Ling crouched outside the hollow, her dagger glinting. "Knew you were hiding something," she said, voice low. "What's that glow?"
Zhan Tian stilled the qi, the light fading. "Fireflies," he lied. "Reflections."
She scowled. "Don't play me for a fool. You're no wanderer. Fighters like you don't just stumble into dumps like this."
He stood, stepping into the moonlight. "What am I, then?"
She hesitated, then straightened. "I don't know. But you're trouble. Good trouble, maybe. Just don't burn us down with you."
"Fire builds as well as it burns," he said, walking past her. "Help me, and you'll see."
She followed, silent but watchful. Back at the estate, he gathered the clan at dawn. "Bandits won't stop," he said. "We need more than walls. Traps, weapons, a plan."
Ye Qing nodded. "What do you suggest?"
"Start with the woods," Zhan Tian said. "Better snares. Then the walls—more runes. I'll show you."
"Runes?" Ye Chen asked, sharp as ever.
"Tricks," Zhan Tian corrected. "Old ones. They work."
The day passed in a blur—Ye Ling setting traps under his guidance, Ye Chen sketching plans for the walls, Ye Qing and Ye Hua scavenging what they could. Zhan Tian moved among them, subtle as a shadow, teaching without preaching. By dusk, the estate felt less like a ruin, more like a foothold.
As night fell, he stood by the gate, the seal's pulse a steady beat. The Black Claw loomed, and beyond them, the Lin Clan. Tian Xu's betrayal was a distant star, but its light still burned. The Ye Clan was his first step—a spark he'd fan into a blaze to consume them all.