Dense, almost tangible fog, like the matted fur of a giant beast, enveloped the rocky slopes. It clung to knife-sharp outcrops, swathed the sparse, gnarled pines, turning them into ghostly sentinels along the mountain trails. The air was saturated with moisture and a bone-chilling cold. The smell was specific: the dampness of wet stone, the pungent bitterness of pine needles squeezed by the fog, and beneath them—a faint but distinct aroma of ancient dust and weathered rock, as if the mountains breathed deeply and slowly. A cold wind hummed in the deep crevasses, emitting a drawn-out, mournful howl. It caught and carried the echo of distant rockfalls—dull, rolling booms that seemed to come from another world, a reminder of the constant threat of these places.
Riannel walked ahead, unwavering, as if untouched by the cold or the damp. Cai Sheng marched behind her, his steps cautious, his whole body radiating tension.
"How long have we been walking here without a single enemy?" Cai, impatiently kicked a stone the size of his fist. The stone tore loose from the ledge with a dull, wet thud and tumbled down; its impacts against the rocks quickly faded into the abyss below. The smell of kicked-up stone dust mingled with the general cold bouquet.
Riannel merely snorted, not turning around, her voice sounding muffled, dampened by the fog:
"You say that as if it's a bad thing."
"Isn't it?" he snapped, sharply crossing his arms over his chest, his armor clinking softly. "We're not here for scenic walks on these rocks. The air here smells like impending disaster."
"No. But not for foolishness either," Riannel parried, her step unbroken.
Cai suddenly stopped, as if he'd slammed into an invisible wall. All his muscles tensed to the limit. His fingers involuntarily clenched into a tight fist, knuckles white. Icy goosebumps ran across his skin under the thin fabric of his shirt—something was nearby... alien, sharp, like the smell of ozone before a storm, but devoid of natural purity. This sensation grated on his nerves. He didn't see, he didn't hear—he knew.
"Quiet," he whispered, and his whisper, despite the silence, was barely audible to him, so tense and soundless it was. The air seemed to thicken; the smell of dampness was suddenly overpowered by something metallic, cold.
From behind the nearest rock, swathed in shifting fog, a shadow flickered. Swift, gliding, unnaturally smooth. Not animal-like.
In the next instant, Cai Sheng lunged forward. His movement was swift and silent, like a stone falling into an abyss. Semi-transparent, shimmering bluish claws grew from his hands, gleaming like honed blades of the purest crystal. He saw her—Feilin Yue, frozen in a low stance, ready to leap or strike. Her fingers were already forming a lethal magical gesture, emitting a faint but ominous violet glow, and the air smelled of smoke and static.
But the blow, the inevitable, crushing blow, never came.
The world shuddered, like a thin film of oil on water, rippling and distorting everything around for a split second. And suddenly...
"...How long have we been walking here without a single enemy?" Cai repeated irritably, with the same intonation, kicking the same stone by the edge of the path. The stone tore loose, rolled down with the exact same dull, wet thud, disappearing into the abyss. But the smell... the smell was different. The same damp stone, but now with a distinct, unpleasant note of decay, as if something had died deep in a crevasse. The scent of pines had almost vanished, choked by this putrid breath. The wind hummed in the crevasses with the same melancholy, but the echo of the rockfalls sounded somehow... artificial, too rhythmically perfect, as if repeating itself.
Riannel walked ahead. Her long cloak fluttered in the gusts, but the movement of the fabric seemed slightly slower now, slightly off. Her pale hair blended with the grey shroud, but the shroud itself seemed thicker, heavier, almost viscous. Cai Sheng marched behind her. His dark eyes still anxiously scanned the slopes, but they held not only wariness, but a deep, soul-chilling confusion. He knew. He had just known! An alien presence, Feilin Yue, claws... But now... his skin wasn't prickling with goosebumps, but he was gnawed by a sense of déjà vu mixed with nauseating emptiness. The smell of ozone, the smoke—all gone, only the intensified rot and oppressive silence remained. He mechanically clenched his fists—no claws, only cold, damp skin.
He waited. Waited for the shadow behind the rock. Waited for the whisper "Quiet" that should have escaped his lips. But his throat was constricted. He looked at that very rock. Nothing. Only fog, undulating like jelly. No shadow. No movement. Only... the feeling that someone had just been there and vanished, leaving behind only this oppressive sense of repetition and the smell of decay.
Riannel merely snorted in response to Cai's words, her snort sounding like an echo of the previous one, in exactly the same tone, with the same hint of condescending irritation. She didn't turn around, continuing to walk through the fog that had suddenly become even more alien and unreal. Cai Sheng followed her, his gaze darting feverishly, trying to catch the slightest hint of what had been a moment ago. But the world around was stubbornly, ominously "normal" in its repetitiveness, saturated with the new, repulsive smell and a soul-chilling sense of a trap.
The last, almost horizontal rays of the setting sun, like golden spears, struggled to pierce the impenetrable canopy of ancient trees. They penetrated the dense foliage—maple crimson, oak dark green, fern lacy—patterning the damp forest floor in a bizarre mosaic of scarlet, amber, ochre, and deep purple hues. Each ray, falling on the carpet of fallen leaves, moss, and pine needles, ignited tiny sparks of dust motes swirling in the moisture-laden air. This air was a thick, almost tangible cocktail of smells. Dominating was the resinous, vital aroma of pine needles—pine and spruce, whose mighty trunks soared skyward like the columns of an ancient temple. Beneath this layer was the breath of the earth itself: the damp, musty smell of rotting leaves and wood pulp, the sweetly heavy scent of wet moss covering stones and tree roots, and a barely perceptible but distinct note of mushrooms hiding in the shadows. And somewhere very deep, almost subconsciously, there was the metallic tang of blood. The air was humid, cool, promising imminent nocturnal dampness, and every breath left a slight bitterness of magically scorched space on the tongue.
Natsuki Kengo sat on a fragment of dark-grey rock. The stone beneath him was rough, cold, and in places covered with rust-colored lichen. He was bent over his sword, his posture focused, almost prayerful. The blade, lying across his lap on a piece of coarse cloth, was shattered into several large, sharp fragments. They didn't just lie there—they shimmered with a faint inner light, like shards of the starry sky. Natsuki methodically, with incredible precision and patience, pieced them together like a complex, precious puzzle. His fingers, covered in a fine network of scratches and callouses, moved confidently but with utmost care. Each piece of cold metal, when touched to another, produced not just a clink, but a quiet, pure, vibrating sound—high and clear, like a drop of water on crystal. This sound resonated in the forest silence, as if the metal itself recognized its master's hand and sang to him. The touch wasn't only tactile—Natsuki felt a slight, barely noticeable vibration running from his fingertips up his arm, like a current, not painful but invigorating, a reminder of connection.
Chen Feng lay nearby, on a soft cushion of brown moss, hands behind his head. His rough clothes were dusty and slightly torn. His breathing was even, deep, but in his half-closed eyes, reflecting the sunset's crimson, one could still read a deep, bone-weary fatigue after the exhausting fight with Luo and Huang. It seemed every muscle fiber was filled with lead. He watched as Natsuki meticulously, with surgical precision, set another shard in place, and finally couldn't resist, breaking the near-meditative silence with his hoarse but loud voice:
"You sure fuss over that blade," he said, and his voice held more bewilderment than irritation. "Wasting energy, losing time... Could've found a new one, sturdier. Or at least let it rest, get some rest yourself."
Natsuki didn't look up from the fragile construct on his lap. Only the corners of his lips twitched in a faint, weary smile. His fingers continued their dance, finding the precise position for the next fragment.
"This sword isn't just a piece of iron, Chen Feng." he answered quietly but clearly. His voice sounded deeper than usual, tired, but firm. "It remembers... every fight of mine. Every strike, every block. Its steel absorbed not only the blows of enemies, but also my will. It's... an extension of my arm. Or a reflection of my soul. A new blade would be a stranger. This one... it's mine."
The last shard, the smallest and sharpest, seemed to find its own place, slotting into a tiny indentation near the hilt. And in that instant, something happened. Not loud, not blinding, but incredible. A wave of soft, bluish-steel light ran along the entire blade, from tip to guard. It didn't dazzle, but rather glowed from within, like a firefly in a fist. This light pulsed, lived, filling every micro-crack, every scratch. And the cracks vanished. Not just fused—they were erased, like pencil lines under an eraser. The steel didn't just shine like new—it gleamed with a deep, pure, inner radiance it never had, even when freshly forged. But what was even more astonishing—the scratches and fresh scrapes on Natsuki's hands and wrists also began to heal. His skin seemed to come alive under the bluish glow: the redness faded, small wounds closed, leaving only pinkish marks that quickly paled. The smell of ozone and freshness, like after a thunderstorm, mingled with the forest aromas.
Chen Feng raised an eyebrow, his weary face expressing clear impression. He had seen this before—Natsuki's strange abilities, his bond with his weapon—but it was always a sight. He wasn't surprised, but a familiar spark of curiosity and approval lit in his eyes.
"Hm..." The bluish light vanished as instantly and silently as it had appeared, leaving only a slight tingling and the scent of freshness in the air. Natsuki slowly raised his head, his gaze sliding past the trees, fixing on the narrow strip of sunset sky visible through a gap in the canopy. The sky blazed with fierce scarlet and gold, but the colors were somehow... shifted, unnaturally saturated. "Strange. The sun has almost set... It seems time flows faster here than it should..." His voice sounded thoughtful, with a faint note of alarm. He felt it not only visually—the very fabric of space around seemed thinner, time flowed differently, like a fast mountain stream after rain.
Chen Feng snorted, rising from his mossy bed. He stretched, making his joints crack, and took a deep breath of the cool, scent-laden air. His shadow, stretched to incredible length by the sunset light, fell across the forest floor, merging with the shadows of the trees.
"So?" he asked with a touch of bravado, brushing pine needles off his sleeve. "I don't think it'll hurt us any." He raised his hand, palm open to the last rays of the sun. And suddenly his palm ignited with a warm, living golden radiance. It wasn't reflected light, but born within. The light pulsed softly but powerfully, like a tiny sun cupped in his palm. Waves of heat radiated from it, palpable even to Natsuki at a distance. Long, distorted shadows danced across the ground, raced up tree trunks, creating a bizarre, almost theatrical pattern. The smell of pine and smoke was suddenly overpowered by a sweetish, honeyed aroma emanating from Chen Feng's radiance.
The trail, narrow and winding like a serpent's track, wound its way through the impenetrable thicket of the ancient forest. The air hung like a heavy, damp curtain, saturated with a thick, almost tangible bouquet of smells. Dominating was the deep, damp aroma of rotting leaves—a centuries-old carpet slowly decomposing underfoot. Mingled with it was the rich, earthy scent of the soil itself, dark and loamy, like a colossal cake. A sweetish-putrid whiff of mushrooms, hiding in the shadow of roots and on the trunks of fallen giants, vied with the sharp, resinous tang of tree sap oozing from cracks in the bark. Occasionally, like a ghost, slipped the thin, barely perceptible fragrance of wild forest flowers, lost somewhere in the fern greenery, but it was instantly swallowed by the all-encompassing humid stuffiness. Breathing was difficult; the air felt like thick syrup, settling on the skin in a sticky film.
The trunks of giant trees, entwined with vines as thick as a man's arm, vanished into the green gloom of the canopy high overhead. Rare sunbeams that pierced this living vault hung in the air like dusty golden needles, illuminating only patches of moss or bark. Beneath the feet of Shao Xiaotian and Lin Meirong, the ancient moss crunched dully, springy and wet to the touch. Heavy, cold drops of condensation fell from overhanging branches, splattering loudly on leaves or splashing directly onto shoulders. Shao walked ahead, his movements jerky, impulsive. He swung his arms energetically, as if fending off invisible enemies or conducting an orchestra of his fantasies. The bright scarf dangling behind his back seemed the only spot of unnaturally pure color in this realm of twilight and green. The stripes on his arms and neck—crimson and silver—pulsed faintly in time with his long strides, emitting a dim but noticeable glow in the semi-darkness.
"...And then," Shao made a theatrical pause, nimbly hopping over another intertwined root, landing with a soft squelch in the wet moss, "when all hope seemed lost... the Giant Six-Winged Fish Grapevine appeard!" he shouted the name with panache, sweeping his arm wide, causing the crimson stripes to flare brighter, "surfaced from the lake! Didn't just surface—soared! Water cascaded off it in waterfalls, scales gleaming like a thousand wet coins under the moon! And it started firing! Not just acid, Lin!" He turned to her, his eyes blazing with the storyteller's zeal, "but whole, sticky, smoking globs of poisonous slime! Right from its gills! Can you imagine? Fountains of filth! The whole eastern quarter—pffft!—started turning into a bubbling green swamp in moments! Roofs hissed, lampposts bent like wax candles!"
Lin Meirong walked behind him, her steps silent, fluid, like a predatory cat. She didn't take her cold, skeptical eyes off the back of the chatty companion. Her gaze was sharp, analyzing every movement, every gesture. The smell of decay and dampness seemed not to touch her; she floated above this world of wet decomposition.
"And then?" Her voice sounded in the heavy air, level, cold, and sharp as a honed blade, cutting through his chatter. "You, naturally, stood alone against this... Fish Grapevine... and saved the city? One against a monster spewing acid fountains?"
"Of course!" Shao proudly threw up his arm, and the stripes on his skin flashed with bright crimson light, momentarily illuminating the nearest trunks and dangling vines. "I had no choice! I instantly activated my stripes!" He clenched his fist, and the light intensified. "They stretched from my wrist... no, from my fingertips! All the way to the horizon! Bam!" He clapped his hands, and the sound echoed sharply in the forest silence. "Like a giant, shimmering energy shield! Transparent, but incredibly strong! And all that acid—tssss!—hissed and bubbled, hitting it... and evaporated! Into harmless steam! City saved, people rejoicing in the streets, and the grateful mayor..." Shao made a triumphant pause, "...hands me huge, gilded keys to the city gates! Says: 'Shao, hero, entrance and exit—always open for you!'"
Lin stopped. Not sharply, but smoothly, like a shadow meeting an obstacle. She slowly turned her whole body towards him. In her eyes, usually cold and calculating, now played a dangerous, prickly gleam, like a coiled snake. The damp air around her seemed to thicken, grow heavier.
"Let me clarify," she crossed her arms over her chest. The shadows at her feet, like living black ribbons, stirred, rose higher, taking the shape of sharp, threatening spikes that swayed in time with her breathing. Her voice was quieter, but all the more penetrating. "You want me to believe that some... fantastical creature called a 'Fish Grapevine'..." she pronounced the name with icy, annihilating sarcasm, "...attacked the city... with acid. Fired it... from its gills." Lin paused pointedly, raising a thin eyebrow. "Not from its mouth, which would be at least somewhat logical for a creature spewing anything, but specifically from its gills. An amusing anatomical choice. And you, using..." her gaze slid contemptuously over his glowing forearms in the gloom, "...these stripes on your skin... created an energy shield. A shield. The size. Of an entire. District." Each word was a honed dagger. She paused again, letting the absurdity of the claim settle in the damp air. "And this entire magnificent performance... without a single, I emphasize, single witness, except, I suppose, a flock of enthusiastic pigeons dropping grateful dung on you from the rooftops?"
Shao laughed, loudly and contagiously, his laughter echoing under the forest vault, making an invisible bird take flight somewhere above. He wasn't fazed in the slightest.
"Pigeons? Ha! Of course there were pigeons! They sang hymns! But there were others!" He thrust out an index finger glowing crimson. "Like old Mrs. Mei-Lin with her calico cat, Fluffy! They were just running out of the bakery when hell broke loose! And Baker Wong!" Shao mimed a portly man carrying something round. "He rushed out after them, holding a whole, still steaming loaf of his famous cumin bread! And you know what they shouted? In unison!" Shao threw his arms up like an orator at a podium. "'Glory to Shao! Savior of the city! Our shield and sword!' Fluffy, true, was meowing something indistinct, but clearly approving!"
"And Baker Wong," Lin didn't move, only the shadow-spikes at her feet swayed slightly forward, "by any chance, didn't sell you... mushroom pastries not long before this epic battle? Especially the ones with the forest mushrooms?" A barely perceptible, icy smirk touched the corner of her lip. "Or perhaps this 'Six-Winged Fish Grapevine' simply appeared to you in a dream after a portion of his stale, fermented baking? A hallucination due to food poisoning—a more plausible explanation for your... exploits."
At that moment, as if confirming her skepticism about real threats, a sharp, dry crunch sounded from the forest depths, to the right of the trail. The sound was loud, distinct, unlike a falling branch or the rustle of a small animal. More like something heavy and clumsy stepping on a dry stick.
The reaction was instantaneous. The shadows coiling around Lin surged upward, thickening around her into a dense, thorny cocoon of sharp black spikes, ready to impale any threat. Her posture shifted from relaxed-skeptical to combative, ready to strike. Even the air around her stilled; the smell of decay and dampness momentarily retreated before the cold, steely scent of readiness to kill.
Shao also flinched. His perpetual smile vanished; his face became focused, tense. The stripes on his arms and neck flickered with an anxious, pulsing scarlet light, casting nervous glints on the wet tree trunks. He froze, turning his head towards the sound, fists clenched, his body radiating a suddenly awakened power, contrasting with his usually casual manner.
But after that single sound, an oppressive, absolute silence fell. Even the drops stopped falling for a moment. The forest held its breath, as if listening to itself. Then somewhere high in the canopy, another heavy drop splashed loudly onto the moss, the sound seeming incredibly loud in this sudden quiet. No rustle, no whisper. Only the wet, heavy silence and the smell of the ancient forest closing in around them once more.
Lin slowly unclenched her hands. The thorny cocoon of shadows subsided, regrouping at her feet, but didn't disappear, merely lurking, retaining its threatening shape. She threw a long, contemptuous look into the darkness where the sound had come from. Her eyes showed irritation and weariness from constant false alarms.
"Walking around here like the last romantics through the wilds of forgotten legends..." her voice became icy again, but now with a note of exhaustion, "...while in reality—only your endless, mind-altering fairy tales... and nervous squirrels throwing pinecones from the treetops. Or rats. Big, brazen rats."
She turned sharply and moved further down the trail, her dark figure almost instantly beginning to dissolve in the encroaching evening gloom, as if swallowed by the forest shadow itself. Shao, a moment later plastering his habitual, carefree smile back on his face, hurried after her, his glowing stripes shifting back to a calm silvery-crimson shimmer.
"Hey, wait! Squirrels can be dangerous too if provoked!" he called after her, trying to regain the light tone.