Chapter 15: The Ash of Nangyang

Yul did not run. Running was inefficient; it wasted oxygen and blurred the vision.

Instead, he glided down the steep mountain path, his bare feet moving with the silent, corrected footwork of the Ghost-Step , leaping over wet roots and sliding down muddy banks without making a sound.

The further down the ridge he went, the thicker the smoke became. It hung in the green valley like a heavy, gray shroud, choking the sunlight until the forest looked as dark as twilight.

He reached the edge of the tree line.

Nangyang was gone.

The neat, terraced green fields were trampled into a black, muddy mire. The thatch-roofed clay huts were fully engulfed in low, greasy red flames that licked at the damp afternoon sky.

And in the center of the village path, the people lay.

Yul stopped at the edge of the clearing, his back pressed against the trunk of a wild plum tree. His dark eyes scanned the scene, recording every detail with a cold, terrifying detachment that his seven-year-old mind couldn't stop.

Granny Hu lay near the communal well. Her bamboo cane was snapped in two, lying in the red mud. Her small, frail body was face down, her grey hair stained with a dark, spreading crimson that was already attracting the heavy summer flies.

The village blacksmith, a giant of a man who had once given Yul an old iron nail to play with, was slumped against his own anvil. His throat had been cut with a single, clean stroke that had nearly severed his head.

There were no signs of a struggle. The farmers had been cut down where they stood, slaughtered like sheep in a pen.

Yul’s chest grew cold. A physical numbness started at his fingertips and crept up his arms, turning his blood to lead.

‘My calculation was wrong,’ his mind whispered, the thoughts repeating in a rapid, broken loop. ‘I thought we had three days. I thought the southern border was safe. I didn't account for their speed. I didn't account for the dogs.’

Stolen novel; please report.

A low, deep growl rumbled from the smoke-filled courtyard of the village head's house.

Three massive, red-eared mastiffs stepped out of the haze. Their heavy, iron-spiked collars clicked as they walked, their black snouts dripping with blood and saliva. Behind them walked four men.

They did not wear the blue robes of the Ma Clan. They wore the dark, grease-stained leather of the northern mercenaries—the same clan as the men Yul had killed in the mountain pass.

"The old man isn't here," one of the mercenaries said, wiping his bloody saber on the sleeve of a dead farmer. "Only these dirt-grubbers."

"The hounds traced the boy's scent to this well," another replied, his voice flat. "He's nearby. Find him, cut the head, and we can get out of this damp, miserable hole. My boots are rotting."

Yul stood in the shadow of the plum tree, his breath shallow.

He looked toward his own hut at the edge of the marsh. The thatch roof had already collapsed, the clay walls black with soot.

There was no sign of Song Chi.

‘Is he dead?’ Yul thought, his heart taking a sudden, violent leap against his ribs. ‘Did they catch him? No. Song Chi is too fast. He wouldn't die to these dogs.’

But the realization didn't bring comfort. It only brought a vast, terrifying loneliness. The small, warm world of Nangyang—the sweet millet, the smell of woodsmoke, the old woman who left him plums—had been completely, systematically erased. Because of him.

They hadn't killed the villagers for food or silver. They had killed them simply because Yul’s scent had touched their well.

A hot, dark fury—not the cold, mechanical anger he used to survive, but a deep, human hatred—surged from the very bottom of Yul’s soul. The thin, silver scars on his meridians began to throb, the dormant black qi in his dantian awakening with a low, violent hum.

He reached down and picked up a heavy, jagged stone from the mud.

His hand was small, his fingers still stiff from the healing, but as his fingers closed around the cold rock, the wind over the burning village seemed to die.

The hounds’ ears suddenly perked up. They turned their black eyes directly toward the plum tree, their growls deepening into a vicious, expectant hiss.

"Over there," the lead mercenary said, pointing his stained saber toward the shadow. "We've got the rat."

If you find any errors (non-standard content, ads redirect, broken links, etc..), Please let us know so we can fix it as soon as possible.