Chapter 1 The mountain Path

　　Sunlight filtered through gaps between leaves of all sizes, dappling the rugged, winding road below. This path, barely wide enough for a single horse, rose and fell with the mountain's contours, while the stubborn wild grass along its edges slowly encroached upon the surface of yellow earth and gravel.

　　From among that very grass, a marten with a bushy, fluffy tail reared up on its hind legs, fixing its unblinking stare on the far end of the path.

　　The mountain road was already rough and undulating, and with its own poor little body, the marten's field of vision was pitifully small. But its keen hearing proved immensely useful: among a jumble of scattered, disorderly footsteps mixed with heavy, labored breathing, it caught these strange sounds and raised its upper body in puzzled alertness. The marten did not move a muscle—until slowly, a head wrapped in a black turban emerged into sight.

　　This was mortal danger. The moment it spotted the target, the marten twisted its body sharply and shot into the depths of the grass like an arrow loosed from the bowstring.

　　With its movement, the quiet woods immediately echoed with the sounds of other small creatures—of all sizes—scurrying away in rustling, scattered retreat.

　　The marten, having darted up the nearest tree trunk with a burst of speed, half-running and half-leaping, finally felt a flicker of relief and turned its head back for a look.

　　But when it spotted the second and third black-turbaned heads emerging into view, it realized that the danger had not faded—it had only grown worse. Instinct took over, and the little beast fled deeper into the densest part of the forest, pressing onward into the wild.

　　The first man—the one with the black turban wrapped around his head—moved with steady, surefooted steps that landed without a sound. The footsteps the marten had heard earlier had actually come from farther away; they were not made by this man. It was the dissonance between sound and sight—the mismatch of what the little creature heard and what it now saw—that had signaled the true, extreme danger.

　　The black-turbaned man climbed to a higher vantage point, paused briefly, and let his gaze flicker across the surrounding terrain. Then he turned and gave a slight nod toward those behind him.

　　In an instant, three more men appeared, all dressed in identical fashion, each with a black turban bound about his head. They moved in utter silence, their actions and bearing indistinguishable from the first man's—flawless, precise, and eerily uniform.

　　These three followed with the same clean, efficient movements. They were clearly dressed as guards or attendants, and the man at the forefront was unmistakably their leader.

　　Only after this did the scattered, shuffling sounds of footsteps arrive in succession, as a straggling group made their way up the path. Unlike the guards who had scouted ahead, these newcomers moved with lighter, less steady steps. The party was a mix of men and women, dressed in varied clothing—all in the style of household servants. Though their garments were plain in cut and design, the fabric was of exceptionally fine quality, clearly costly. One glance was enough to tell that the master of this expedition was a person of great wealth and status.

　　Among the last of the servants, several men each held a black leash, and from each leash was tethered a strange beast with a striped, tiger-like coat and the build of a horse. These creatures bore tails three feet long, their pelts a mottled mix of colors, with strong, sinewy legs built for endurance and speed.

　　Once the servants had settled into position, they didn't pause to rest. Instead, they loosened the black leashes from around the beasts' necks and began examining each one carefully, one by one.

　　This was the peak of a mountain—a flat area, but not a very large one. Beyond this point, the terrain grew too steep for further ascent, so they decided to stop here and take their rest.

　　No sooner had the group come to a halt than an uninhibited child's voice rang out: "I'm beat! Owww..." It was Xiaotong, a boy of about ten, dressed in bright, resplendent clothes, with a black turban atop his head that was noticeably larger than the ones the others wore. In his small hand, he brandished a green bamboo walking stick.

　　Grimacing and complaining as he walked, Xiaotong shoved his way rudely through the others in his path, found an open spot, and dropped himself onto the ground with a heavy plop. He tossed the green bamboo stick far away, then leaned back and collapsed onto the grass, continuing to groan, "Owww... owwww..." without making the slightest effort to move.

　　The black-turbaned leader hurried over and crouched down beside Xiaotong. He removed the boy's shoes and saw that both of his pale, fair feet were bright red and covered with blisters.

　　The leader furrowed his brow, a hint of confusion crossing his face. Xiaotong clearly had some cultivation training—so how could walking have left his feet so blistered?

　　"I'm not walking another step! You wouldn't let me ride my Hanhan, so now you carry me... carry me!" Xiaotong whined, kicking his feet in the air as he ranted.

　　The black-turbaned leader let out a hearty laugh, catching Xiaotong's wildly kicking feet in his hands to keep them from bumping against the blisters and making the boy shriek even louder.

　　Still in the midst of his tantrum, Xiaotong heard the leader's laughter and only grew more obstinate, kicking even harder while simultaneously groping around on the ground beside him—as if searching for a few stones, though what he intended to do with them was anyone's guess.

　　Just then, a cold snort sounded from behind. The black-turbaned leader, with practiced silence, pressed his fingers into the acupoints on Xiaotong's feet, and the boy's legs went instantly rigid.

　　Xiaotong shot up into a sitting position and scrambled to get to his feet, momentarily forgetting that his legs were still immobilized and still held in the leader's grasp. The attempt failed—and he nearly toppled over backward instead.

　　But the leader's hand was quick and his eye sharper. With a smooth, effortless push, he guided Xiaotong's rolling motion to a graceful completion. Once Xiaotong's feet were planted firmly on the ground, the full weight of his body pressed down onto the blisters, which burst instantly. A sharp sting shot up from his soles. Xiaotong let out a pained grunt but clamped his jaw shut and stood his ground, refusing to move another inch.

　　The one who had let out that cold snort was a woman. She was tall and slender, with a braided crown atop her head, from which dangled an ornament shaped like a flying bird at a slant. Unlike the gray-clad household guards with their black turbans, this woman was dressed entirely in yellow. Standing beside her was a young girl in a pale, moon-white dress, her cheeks faintly flushed, her face beaming with a smile.

　　The yellow-clad woman walked over to Xiaotong and gazed down at him with a stern expression.

　　Xiaotong's face twisted into a look of utter wrongedness. He obediently sat down on the ground and hung his head, not daring to meet her eyes. But out of the corner of his vision, he spotted the little girl looking at him—and she secretly made a face at him. His small face flushed red, and he shook his fist at her in mock threat.

　　The black-turbaned leader stepped forward and gave a slight bow to the yellow-clad woman. "Madam," he reported, "this is the summit of Qinchuan. In three more days' travel, we shall reach the capital of the Wei Kingdom. Beyond this point, the terrain becomes gentler—no more great mountains or treacherous rivers. I have just checked on the Shu horses; they have all recovered. From here onward, we can use them for riding."

　　"Very well," the yellow-clad woman said with a nod. "But keep an eye on those behind us as well."

　　She turned to Xiaotong and continued, "Rest here for a while. As Commander Chen has said, we have only three days left. Do not slacken your efforts."

　　Seeing Xiaotong hurriedly nod, she added, "A cultivator, and yet you resort to such foolish behavior—"

　　Before Xiaotong could reply, the little girl beside him, seeing him still forcing a stubborn front, could not help but let out a giggle. Then, catching the yellow-clad woman's glance in her direction, she quickly covered her small mouth with her hand, looking adorably sheepish.

　　The woman in yellow was the little girl's master. Her surname was Luo, her given name Huiyan. Because she favored yellow garments, she was known as Luo Huangyi—"Luo of the Yellow Robe." Xiaotong called her Aunt Hui.

　　As for the eight men with black turbans, they were all Xiaotong's household guards, and their commander was named Chen Jiang.

　　Luo Huangyi crouched down, took one of Xiaotong's feet in her hand, and examined the freshly burst blisters. With her other hand, she waved behind her. The little girl—who had just been making faces and giggling—hurried forward, unstrapped a small satchel from her back, and spread it open before her.

　　Behind the group, people were still making their way up in a steady stream. At the front came four maidservants in purple palace robes, followed by several male servants in dark attire carrying an empty palanquin between them. Behind them came dozens of pack horses, their backs laden with chests and bundles of all sizes. Because the flat area at the summit was quite limited, not all the pack horses could make it up; they halted and rested where they stood.

　　From where Xiaotong sat, all he could see were the towering piles of luggage stacked on the horses' backs, with only the corners of the chests visible.

　　Seeing that Xiaotong was in Luo Huangyi's care, the black-turbaned leader turned and walked back to the edge of the flat summit, looking down at the winding path below. There, behind the pack horses, he could make out several carts stretching along the mountain trail.

　　Each cart was covered with gray cloth, their shapes square and of varying sizes. From all four corners of each cart, heavy iron chains protruded, anchoring whatever was inside with extreme security.

　　Though the gray cloth obscured the view, preventing anyone from seeing what lay beneath, the carts still swayed and jostled as they made their way over the rugged mountain terrain. Whenever a mountain breeze swept past, waves of a foul, rank odor drifted up from them.

　　Among the wild grasses and tangled thickets by the roadside, a few slow-witted creatures that had not yet been startled away by the commotion of the party caught the stench wafting from the carts—and immediately scattered in chaos, fleeing with a great rustling din into the distance.

　　The black-turbaned guards paid this no mind. Their commander let his gaze sweep past the carts and fixed his eyes on the far distance. There, rising above the treeline, he spotted another man—also with a black turban—who made a hand signal toward his position. The commander responded by giving a sharp flick of his arm, and a barely perceptible wisp of arcane power coalesced in the air, then dissipated into nothingness.

　　This was clearly a common form of communication among the guards. At the sight of the commander's signal, the distant guard silently descended back into the woods.

　　Having surveyed the long column stretching down the mountain, Chen Jiang felt reassured.

　　He had performed this same routine every single day since entering the borders of the Wei Kingdom. There was not a single person in the entire party who did not curse the Wei Kingdom's absurd prohibition on aerial flight. For cultivators, a journey of several hundred thousand li could be completed in mere days by flying—never forcing them into this wretched, footsore state.

　　All of this had happened in an instant. Commander Chen Jiang turned his gaze back toward Xiaotong. Luo Huangyi had only just finished washing Xiaotong's feet with clean water brought by a maidservant, and the little girl was now rummaging through the array of bottles and jars spread out from her satchel, searching for the right medicine.

　　That Luo Huangyi chose to tend to Xiaotong herself, rather than leaving it to the servants, was something the guards had long since come to accept without surprise.

　　This stretch of mountain land was part of the vast Qinchuan range. Within Wei territory, it wound for some eight thousand li. The path they had been following was a shortcut clearly marked on the maps.

　　For a variety of reasons, the party had also brought along mortal servants—people originally tasked with caring for Xiaotong. But because the Qinchuan terrain was so treacherous, these mortals could barely manage the journey. Before entering the range, Xiaotong had wanted to send them back, but both Luo Huangyi and Chen Jiang had objected.

　　Xiaotong was not by nature a spoiled or unreasonable child, and he had long felt a pang of sympathy for these servants. But because of his status and identity, both Aunt Hui and the commander had refused to allow the servants to be dismissed before the mountains were crossed.

　　And so the entire party had trekked on foot. Slow as they were, they had finally reached the highest point of this mountain road today. From here onward, the path would slope gently downward, and everyone could ride the Shu horses—a far lighter burden.

　　Yet the road through Qinchuan remained fraught with danger at every turn.