The road south from Lanmen was not paved.
It wound through leafless woods and frozen rice fields, skirting the bones of villages that once stood proud before the Purge. Broken walls. Empty wells. Wind-chimes that no longer sang. Every few li, Ji Haneul passed the remnants of banners—faded cloth still bearing symbols of minor sects long erased.
He didn't linger.
His path was clear: Jingzhou.
The Hao Sect had once operated in shadows, hated by the righteous and feared by the unorthodox alike. But those lines blurred after the Purge. Now they moved quietly—no longer villains, not yet heroes. Survivors.
Carriers of dangerous truths.
And Haneul needed one of them.
—
It took five days to cross the wooded ridges. He spent nights beneath old shrines, in caves with burned altars, and once inside the trunk of a dead jujube tree. He encountered no bandits. No beasts. Only watchers.
Eyes from the treeline. Qi flickers that vanished when he turned. Whispers in languages that didn't belong to any province.
Something was following him.
Something that didn't bleed easily.
—
On the sixth day, he reached the trade road.
Jingzhou's border was guarded not by soldiers—but by silence. The towns he passed grew more cautious. Inns served him food without asking names. Conversations paused when he entered.
At dusk, he arrived at a narrow tavern with a thatched roof and a crooked red lantern above the door.
The Black Crane Teahouse.
The token in his sleeve burned faintly with qi.
He entered.
Smoke clung to the ceiling. Patrons sat hunched over bowls of rice wine, whispering. A blind zither player strummed from the far corner.
A woman in grey robes approached, no emblem on her chest.
"One bowl, one night, or one story?" she asked flatly.
"None," Haneul replied. "I came for Suon."
Her eyes didn't flicker. She turned.
"Wait here."
He sat.
The moments stretched long. The zither stopped. A man coughed near the kitchen.
Then, a side door opened.
A tall figure entered—robe travel-stained, face lined by sleepless years, but the eyes were sharp. Watching him. Measuring.
"You carry the flame of the Hao Sect," the man said.
Haneul produced the bamboo token.
"Then we speak outside," the man said. "The walls here listen too well."
They exited through the rear courtyard. Cold wind rustled bamboo leaves. A small shrine stood to one side, half-rebuilt.
"I'm Suon," the man said. "What do you want?"
"I want names," Haneul said. "Movements. Patterns. The Order of the Shattered Soul is here. I've seen them. I've followed the trail."
"You've followed smoke."
"They're recruiting. Whispering in villages. Planting things where they shouldn't be."
Suon didn't deny it.
Instead, he sat on the edge of the well.
"They were supposed to be destroyed," he said. "After the massacre at Red Pine Gorge. We tracked their sigils. Their poisons. Their tongues. And then…"
"They vanished," Haneul said.
"No. They adapted."
A silence passed between them.
"I don't want vengeance," Haneul said.
"Then you're the only one."
"I want to find their root. Burn it out."
Suon stared at him. "What realm are you?"
"Supreme Peak."
Suon raised a brow. "And still breathing. Impressive."
Haneul said nothing.
Finally, Suon stood. From his sleeve, he drew a thin paper map—marked with old ink and fresher blood.
"Follow the river road. Three days south. You'll find a silk dye village called Yejin."
"What's there?"
"Nothing. And that's the problem. It was full two months ago. Everyone gone. No sign of struggle. No fire. Just… gone."
"Cult?"
"Or worse."
He handed Haneul the map.
"When you see them," Suon added, "don't listen. Don't argue. Don't hesitate. If they speak to you, you've already lost."
"I'll remember."
"Good. Then maybe one of us will survive long enough to matter."
They parted with no goodbyes.
The wind whistled behind him as Ji Haneul walked back into the night, the weight of silence pressing tighter.
But his sword was lighter than it had ever been.
And something in the cold air told him:
The next village would not be empty.
It would be waiting.