Jin Mu left the inner compound before dawn, carrying only a waterskin and the small dagger he kept hidden in his sash.
The investigation could wait a few hours. He needed clarity, and nothing cleared the mind like solitude—and the hunt.
The frost had not yet lifted from the outer hills. A thin rind of ice glazed the rocks, crunching under his boots as he tracked the old boar trails.
He moved without hurry. He had not slept at all, and his thoughts felt blurred, as if he were watching himself through glass.
Still, when he caught sight of the massive tusked boar rooting in the briars, something quiet and steady settled into place.
Here, at least, there were no lies. No politics. Only life and death, immediate and honest.
He waited, controlling his breath.
When the boar raised its great head, snuffling the air, he stepped into the clearing.
The beast lowered its tusks, pawed the frozen ground.
He did not hesitate.
In three swift strides, he was in range. His dagger flashed once, twice. A spray of dark blood arced across the brambles.
The boar staggered, wheezed, and crashed to the earth.
Jin Mu stood over it, chest heaving.
He felt no triumph—only the ragged calm that came in the wake of action.
By mid-morning, he had dressed and spitted the carcass over a clean-burning fire.
Grease hissed and sizzled as he turned the haunch. The smell reminded him of simpler days—before the ambition, before the regressions and the shadows in his mind.
He ate in silence, watching the horizon fade to a thin, cold blue.
For the first time in weeks, he almost believed he was alone in the world.
He saw them when he finished.
Two figures, stumbling between the pines. A girl, no older than sixteen, her red hair tangled around a bruised cheek. Her little brother—six, maybe seven—clung to her hand, eyes wide with hunger and terror.
Their tunics were torn, thin enough to show the raw welts along their ribs.
They stopped when they saw him.
The girl's gaze was defiant even in her exhaustion. The boy's was uncertain, flickering between fear and the last fragile hope.
Slaves.
He had seen thousands like them. Had learned to look away.
But today, he could not.
Two overseers stalked into view behind them, carrying thin-bladed whips.
One spat into the dirt. "These ones think they can steal scraps from the storage carts."
The other's mouth twisted. "Little rats. Master said to make an example."
They raised their whips.
Jin Mu stepped between them, his voice low. "Enough."
The overseers exchanged glances.
"Who are you to interfere?" one sneered.
He did not answer with titles.
Instead, he crouched, eye to eye with the children.
"If you had food," he said gently, "would you run again?"
The girl's lips trembled. But she held his gaze. "We would."
Something in his chest hurt at her honesty.
He straightened, turning back to the overseers.
"A bet," he said flatly.
They frowned.
"I will wager my own left finger," he continued, "that I can outdraw either of you."
A slow, ugly smile spread across the taller man's face. "And if we lose?"
"They go free."
The other laughed. "You must be mad."
"Perhaps." Jin Mu flexed his hand. "Do we have accord?"
They agreed with vulgar relish.
He closed his eyes, feeling the weariness in every limb. A single sleepless night, but it had robbed him of the edge he relied upon.
Still. He could not back down now.
He counted to three in silence.
On the last beat, his hand blurred for the dagger.
So did theirs.
Time splintered into slow fragments.
The steel flashed. The wind hissed.
His blade struck first, nicking the taller overseer's cheek. A heartbeat faster—barely.
He exhaled, fighting a wave of dizziness.
"You lost," he said, voice hoarse.
For an instant, there was silence.
Then, with a single motion, the second overseer turned and drove his blade down—straight toward the little boy's chest.
The girl screamed.
Jin Mu moved on reflex, already lunging.
But he was too slow.
He caught the blade on his palm, wrenching it away.
But not before it punched through the child's ribs.
He heard a soft, bewildered gasp as the boy crumpled.
The world blurred.
Something broke inside him.
He turned on the overseers with a snarl.
No technique. No calculated force.
Just the raw fury he had buried too long.
He struck one across the throat, feeling cartilage crush.
The other tried to run.
He pulled him back by the hair and opened his belly with a single stroke.
The bodies fell where they stood.
For a long time, he just stood there, staring down at the boy's still form.
His hands were shaking. Blood streaked his palms and forearms.
The girl was sobbing, clutching her brother's cooling body.
He knelt, voice low.
"I'm sorry."
Her shoulders convulsed. She did not look up.
He swallowed against the ache in his throat.
"I should have saved him."
Still she would not meet his eyes.
He looked down at his own trembling hands, and something inside him cracked.
Slowly, he reached out and drew her into his arms.
She didn't resist.
She pressed her face against his shoulder and wept until her voice gave out.
He held her, feeling the weight of everything he could not undo.
When at last her sobs ebbed, he spoke—quiet, unguarded.
"You did nothing wrong. None of this is your fault."
Her breath hitched.
He closed his eyes.
"And I swear to you…this is not how it ends."
When the last of the daylight had fled, he buried the boy himself.
The girl watched in silence, her eyes hollow.
When it was done, he sat beside her, staring at the mound of earth.
"I will take you somewhere safe," he murmured.
Her voice was no more than a whisper. "Why?"
He thought of all the times he had been left behind.
"All I ever wanted," he said softly, "was for someone to reach back."
In that moment, he did not feel like a regressor or a cultivator or a monster.
Just a man trying to atone.