Chronicles of Fates Path

Midday arrived under a canopy of green and gold. Shafts of sunlight broke through the forest's thick foliage, illuminating tiny swirls of dust motes in the humid air. Lan Zhuoran and Yin Feiyan slowed to a halt near a small clearing, where a trickle of a spring cut through rocks, offering fresh water. The mule snorted, grateful for a break from the uneven terrain.

Yin Feiyan dismounted carefully, teeth gritted against the ache in her arm. Lan Zhuoran reached to steady her, concern etched in his face. "Let's check your injury," he said gently, guiding her to sit on a fallen log. She didn't protest.

Removing the bandage, he found the wound still swollen but no longer actively bleeding. At least the edges looked cleaner than before, thanks to Madam Qiu's careful treatment. He rinsed it with water from the spring, and she hissed softly at the sting.

"Sorry," he muttered, wincing as he worked. "Just a bit more."

She pressed her lips together, forcing composure. "Don't worry. I've been through worse. I need it to heal if I'm to fight again." Her gaze drifted to the relic, which rested on a patch of moss. "I may not have a choice."

Lan Zhuoran wrapped fresh cloth around her arm, recalling the stories of martial clans that roamed the empire. Each clan had distinctive techniques, some harnessing advanced technology, others relying on spiritual cultivation. In that world, injuries like hers could prove fatal if left untended. Yet she insisted on pushing forward.

"Speaking of fighting," he ventured, tying the makeshift bandage in a neat knot. "Do you have any specialized training? I mean, you must if your mentor trusted you with something so important."

Yin Feiyan shrugged gingerly. "I was taught a hybrid style—part physical combat, part artifact manipulation. My mentor believed ancient technologies and martial arts were two sides of the same coin if harnessed together. It sets me apart from most cultivators, but it also makes me a target."

Lan Zhuoran nodded in understanding. "I only know the Five-Winds Form—an older cultivation style passed down in my family. Nothing fancy, but it helps me focus my qi and move efficiently." He paused, glancing at her bandage. "You sure you're up for traveling more today?"

She pursed her lips, eyes scanning the forest's edge. "We have to. The more distance we put between ourselves and Baihe, the safer your village will be. Besides, I'd rather deal with pain than risk your home getting ransacked."

Touched by her consideration for Baihe, he helped her to her feet. They shared a brief look of camaraderie before she turned to pick up the relic. Wrapping it securely, she took a deep breath. "Let's move."

They continued east, navigating winding animal trails through a world of towering trunks and dense undergrowth. Sunlight dappled the ground, and the forest thrummed with life—birdsong, the rustle of squirrels, the hum of insects. Yet beneath this natural chorus lay an unsettling quiet, as if the forest itself awaited a confrontation.

Around mid-afternoon, the trees thinned, revealing a narrow path that ran alongside a rocky slope. Lan Zhuoran spotted old cart tracks carved into the earth, overgrown with weeds. "Must be an abandoned trade route," he said softly.

Yin Feiyan nodded, eyes narrowed. "We need to be cautious. Abandoned routes can be perfect places for an ambush."

Sure enough, their wariness proved warranted. Only moments later, a flicker of movement caught Lan Zhuoran's attention to their right—a silhouette slipping behind a cluster of boulders. His heart pounded, and he lifted a hand to signal Yin Feiyan. She stopped, holding the relic protectively close.

A tense beat passed. Then, from behind the boulders, four figures emerged—darkly clad, each brandishing a weapon: swords, polearms, even a crossbow. Their faces were obscured by cloth masks, and the emblem on their attire featured a stylized wolf's head. Lan Zhuoran's gut twisted. These were no random bandits; they had the look of trained mercenaries.

"Well, well," said one of the masked figures in a low, mocking tone. "Isn't this convenient? Two travelers and a mule." He raised the crossbow lazily, aimed in their direction. "Leave the baggage, and we might let you go."

Yin Feiyan's grip on the relic tightened. "They're working for one of the factions," she whispered to Lan Zhuoran, voice urgent. "Could be the same ones who attacked me before."

He stepped forward, heart drumming, remembering his father's lessons. "I'm no easy prey," he shouted, trying to keep his voice steady. "Let us pass, and nobody gets hurt."

A second mercenary laughed, a harsh bark echoing off the rocky slope. "Brave words from a country boy. Hand over whatever you're hiding under that cloth, and we'll make this quick."

Lan Zhuoran crouched slightly, sliding into the opening stance of Five-Winds. He felt the swirl of energy within him—a subtle wind that steadied his limbs and sharpened his senses. "If you want it," he called, "come and take it by force."

An uneasy moment of stillness froze the air. Then, chaos erupted. The crossbow wielder fired a bolt at Lan Zhuoran, who sidestepped in a blur of motion—just barely. The other mercenaries surged forward, steel glinting in the forest light.

Yin Feiyan, though wounded, pivoted her body to keep the relic secure behind her. One attacker lunged at her with a short sword, and she dodged, hissing in pain as her bandaged arm protested. Lan Zhuoran sprang to intercept, parrying the sword arm with his forearm before driving a palm strike into the mercenary's chest. The blow landed, sending the man stumbling back.

A swirl of adrenaline powered Lan Zhuoran's movements. He danced through the Five-Winds Form with a grace that surprised even himself. Each shifting step blended offense and defense—strike, spin, block, sweep. Yet these foes were no amateurs. Another sword came slashing in, barely missing his shoulder. A third mercenary, carrying a spear, lunged from the left, forcing Lan Zhuoran to twist away.

Yin Feiyan struggled to draw her small dagger with her uninjured arm, but the pain slowed her. One of the mercenaries advanced, confident in her weakness. Before he could land a blow, Lan Zhuoran slammed his knee into the man's ribs, letting out a fierce shout that reverberated among the trees.

Pain blossomed across Lan Zhuoran's back as another attacker clipped him with the flat of a blade. He stumbled, gasping at the impact, but forced himself to remain upright. Yin Feiyan's eyes flickered with alarm, and she tried to shift her stance to help.

"Stay back," he called, voice tinged with desperation. They couldn't risk losing the relic. "I'll hold them off."

However, the crossbowman had reloaded. Leveling the weapon at Lan Zhuoran, he wore a triumphant sneer. Lan Zhuoran's stomach lurched—he was exposed, too close to dodge effectively. He braced for pain.

In that instant, a muffled crack sounded from the forest. The crossbow mercenary jerked sideways, a startled cry escaping as he collapsed. An arrow protruded from his leg. The other mercenaries spun, eyes wide, searching for this new threat.

A soft voice called from the treeline: "I wouldn't mind if you laid down your weapons." Emerging from the shadows was a figure clad in a dark green cloak, bow in hand, amber eyes gleaming with warning. Lan Zhuoran couldn't see their face fully, but the single shot had been expertly placed to wound, not kill.

Seizing the distraction, Lan Zhuoran knocked aside one more blade and shoved a mercenary toward the boulders. Seeing their crossbowman incapacitated and facing an unknown archer, the remaining attackers hissed curses before retreating. They dragged their wounded comrade behind cover and vanished into the forest, leaving only heavy footprints and strained breathing in their wake.

Lan Zhuoran exhaled sharply, lungs burning. Yin Feiyan clutched the relic, trembling, her face pale from pain and exertion. The hooded archer lowered the bow and cautiously approached. "Are you two alright?"

"We'll live," Lan Zhuoran panted, still reeling from the fight. "Who… who are you?"

A wry smile touched the archer's lips, though their hood concealed much of their features. "Just someone passing through. Looks like you attracted some unwanted attention."

Lan Zhuoran glanced at Yin Feiyan, relief and confusion mingling in their eyes. Today, they had narrowly escaped the mercenaries' grasp, only to face more uncertainty. If these enemies were this close already, the road to the capital promised even greater perils—and they now owed a debt to this mysterious archer.