Elder Lu Heng took a slow sip of his tea, the fragrant steam of the high mountain blend doing little to soothe the faint, persistent throb of irritation behind his temples. It had been a… trying few days. First, the boy, Jiang Tian, had vanished. Slipped away from the Sect like smoke through a poorly thatched roof, apparently in pursuit of the half-baked rumour about the Hollow Fangs he'd overheard from some servant. Lu had, of course, anticipated the boy's rashness – it was practically etched into his very being – but he hadn't expected him to be quite so… efficient about it.

Originally, he'd planned to placate the boy by helping him develop that strange stealth technique he seemed to be learning – not to mention ask him where he'd picked up such a fascinating idea – or maybe start him on learning Qi reinforcement. It would have been a little earlier than usual, given that the Elders generally preferred to ensure the disciples were a tad more stable before teaching them the techniques that would make them truly dangerous, even if only to mortals, but he doubted anyone would have complained.

Besides, he was rather hoping the boy would approach him and ask for help. Learning that you couldn't do everything yourself was a valuable lesson – not to mention it might have made him a little more grateful for the help Lu had already given him and deepened the ties between them.

What was truly galling was that no one had even noticed his absence for the better part of two days. Jiang, with his penchant for solitude and his uncanny ability to make himself as unobtrusive as a training dummy when he chose, had simply not been missed. Not by his instructors, not by his fellow outer disciples – who were likely too busy congratulating themselves on one less rival or, more probably, too self-absorbed to notice anything beyond their own noses.

No, it had taken the Matron from the laundry service – a woman whose name Lu couldn't recall but whose sensible, no-nonsense approach he was beginning to appreciate – to finally raise the alarm. She'd apparently noted the boy's absence from her usual morning headcounts of those requiring mending for clothes inexplicably damaged in duels he wasn't supposed to be having so frequently. A cultivator, missed by a servant in charge of washing. The irony was not lost on Lu, though it failed to amuse him as much as it usually might.

Had the Azure Sky Sect truly grown so lax? What else could slip beneath notice?

Then, of course, there was Yan Zhihao. Predictable as a winter frost, the man had seized upon Jiang's departure with the righteous fury of a convert. 'A rogue disciple!' he'd thundered in the emergency council meeting – a meeting Yan himself had demanded. 'A stain upon the Sect's honour! Proof that relaxing our standards, even for a moment, invites chaos!'

Lu had almost laughed. Yan Zhihao, champion of Sect honour. The man who had vouched for Gao Leng all those years ago, dismissing concerns about the boy's volatile temperament, only to see that 'minor indiscretion' bloom into a years-long bandit scourge. Now, he was overcorrecting with the subtlety of a rampaging ox, desperate to expunge that old shame by projecting it onto this new, far less consequential, departure.

And naturally, Yan had ensured his most recent disciple, Zhang Shuren, was dispatched to retrieve the errant boy. A politically astute move, Lu had to concede. It made Yan look decisive, responsible. The fact that Jiang and Zhang had apparently 'trained together' on a few occasions provided a convenient, if flimsy, pretext. Lu suspected Zhang's 'training' had consisted more of public humiliation than genuine instruction, but details like that rarely survived the rumour mill. And if Zhang succeeded – which he likely would, considering the difference between his and Jiang's cultivation – it would reflect well on Yan's tutelage.

Then again, Jiang had surprised him before and would no doubt have the advantage of familiarity in the wider world. The nobles who became cultivators tended to be… sheltered.

Lu set his teacup down with a soft click. The truth was, Jiang's abrupt departure was more an annoyance than a genuine problem. The boy was a raw talent, certainly – his rate of advancement from a complete novice to the third stage in a matter of weeks had been nothing short of startling, even for Lu, who had provided the initial nudge. That "investment," as he'd termed it, had promised surprisingly high returns. A common-born hunter with no prior training, no resources beyond his own stubborn will and whatever that strange feather had done to him… yes, Jiang had been a gamble, but one that had intrigued him.

Considering the boy had fled the Sect, it wasn't a gamble that had paid off – but then again, if Zhang Shuren was able to drag him back… well, Lu might see at least some return on his investment.

Still, it made one wonder.

If a boy like Jiang Tian, plucked from obscurity, could show such innate affinity for cultivation, how many other such talents were languishing in remote villages, their potential unseen, uncultivated? The Sect focused its recruitment on established families, on those who already understood the path, or at least, the politics of it. Understandable, efficient even. But was it always the wisest course? Rough stones, Lu mused, sometimes held the brightest jade. Jiang had been one such stone. Stubborn, rough-edged, utterly lacking in social graces, but with a core of unyielding resolve and an unexpected sensitivity to Qi.

He thought of the other aspirants from Jiang's initial intake, the ones from humbler backgrounds. Most had faded, unable to compete or simply overwhelmed. But there had been a few others… that girl, Lian, for instance. She had been Jiang's roommate during the exams, hadn't she? Also from a village, if memory served. She'd shown a certain shrewdness, aligning herself quickly with those she perceived as stronger. A survivor. Perhaps with a little… attention, a little guidance, that shrewdness could be honed into something more.

Elder Lu Heng allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. Yan Zhihao could play his political games, hunting down rogue disciples to burnish his own tarnished reputation. Lu preferred a longer view. Sometimes, the most valuable assets were the ones everyone else overlooked.

And he was very good at making the most of the opportunities that fell into his lap.

He reached for the small silver bell on the corner of his desk. A clear, concise chime echoed through the quiet compound. A moment later, a servant appeared at the doorway, bowing low.

"Send word to Outer Disciple Lian," Elder Lu said, his voice mild. "I wish to speak with her."

— — —

The heavy timber gate of the village creaked shut behind Han's small party with a thud that felt rather final. They'd been inside for the better part of three hours—long enough to purchase a few sacks of meal, some smoked fish, and a quantity of dried, woody-looking vegetables that Jiang suspected would taste mostly of disappointment. Long enough, too, for the initial palpable tension from the villagers to ease into a wary, watchful tolerance once it became clear Han's group wasn't looking for trouble.

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The original plan had been to make camp within the village's meagre walls for the night, a welcome respite from the biting wind and the monotony of trail rations. But the air of suspicion, though lessened, hadn't entirely dissipated. Whispers still followed them, eyes still tracked their movements from shadowed doorways. Han, despite his usual jovial bluster, had made the call. "Best not to overstay our welcome, eh?" he'd said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Don't want to give folks more to fret about."

So, instead of a warm hearth and a solid roof, they were back on the road, the sun already beginning its slow descent towards the jagged western peaks. The caravan rumbled along with a discontented air, the guards more alert, the passengers huddled deeper in their furs, grumbling about the delay and the prospect of setting up camp in the fading light. Another couple of hours, Han had estimated, to reach a defensible spot with fresh water. It would be a late night.

Jiang shifted his weight and drew his cloak tighter around him. He may not feel the temperature as keenly as he once had, but the lengthening shadows and muted conversation did more to make him feel cold than the physical temperature ever could. Even Han was quieter than usual, his customary stream of anecdotes and questionable jokes having dried up almost entirely since leaving the village.

He kept glancing towards the treeline, his brow furrowed, fingers drumming absently on the reins. It wasn't fear, exactly – Jiang had seen Han face down spirit wolves with a crossbow and a string of curses – but it was something close. A preoccupation that sat ill on the usually boisterous man.

"Something wrong?" Jiang asked eventually, the question more abrupt than he'd intended.

Han startled slightly, pulling his gaze from the dense pines. "Eh? Oh, no, kid. Nothing. Just… thinking." He offered a smile that was a little too quick, a little too bright. "Old caravan master's habit. Always imagining what's over the next rise."

Jiang didn't push, but he didn't look away either. Han hadn't mentioned what he'd found out about the reason the village was so suspicious, but it wasn't hard to see that his mood had dipped since exiting the village, not to mention how his hands never strayed far from his crossbow.

Finally, Han sighed, the sound heavy. "Alright, alright. I can feel you staring at me. Not much point in keeping it a secret anyway, is there? Nobody wanted to come right out and say it, but I heard a few whispers while we were trading. There are bandits in the area. Nasty little crew that's been hitting some of the smaller settlements in this stretch. Not a big outfit, mind you, maybe a dozen, fifteen men. But word is they're… professional."

Jiang's interest sharpened. "Professional?"

"Aye. See, most bandits are little more than starving farmers with rusty pitchforks and more guts than sense, or maybe a bunch of young idiots who fancy themselves tough and have decided it's easier to take from other people than to work hard." Han leaned over to spit viciously over the side of the wagon. "Bastards, the lot of them. Dregs of society. But this lot is different. Skilled, they say. Good steel, good armor, and they look well-fed, even in winter. Word is they move quiet, hit hard, melt away into the forest like ghosts."

Han cast a sideways glance at Jiang. "That's why the village was so jumpy. When a caravan our size rolls up, first thought isn't 'making a sale,' it's 'Are they with them?'" He grunted. "Heard one old woman muttering we might be supplying the bastards. How else would a small crew afford decent gear out here, eh?"

Jiang clenched his fists, Qi curling restlessly under his skin. He could think of another bandit group that was better equipped and had more people than anyone had expected. If the Hollow Fangs were here… "You think they're part of a bigger group?"

Han shot him a sharp look, then visibly forced himself to relax, though his eyes remained wary. "Bigger group? Nah, I doubt it. Most of these bastards," he spat the word, "can't tie their own boots straight, let alone coordinate with anyone else. Banditry, see, it ain't a long-term career choice, not for most. It's desperation – starving farmers after a bad harvest, runaway apprentices with notions of easy coin, disgraced soldiers who can't find honest work. They're usually a flash in the pan. Hit a few isolated farms, maybe get bold and try a poorly guarded traveller if they're feeling lucky or stupid. But they're clumsy, kid. They make noise, they leave tracks a blind man could follow, and they squabble amongst themselves over every bent copper."

He adjusted the reins, the leather creaking softly. "A crew like that, they either get hunted down by the local magistrate's men, starve when winter bites too hard, or one of 'em gets greedy and sticks a knife in his mate's back for an extra share. High turnover, like I said. The ones that do last a season or two? They're usually smarter, smaller. Hit soft targets, know when to lie low. Don't draw attention." He frowned, his gaze returning to the treeline. "This lot, the ones the villagers were whispering about… they don't sound like either of those. Skilled, well-geared – that takes coin, or a backer. And if you have either of those, you don't need to turn bandit. Something's off with this."

Jiang considered that for a moment, but the burning question in his mind had to be asked.

"You think they could be connected to the Hollow Fangs?"

Han scoffed, a short, sharp sound that was more exasperation than amusement. "The Hollow Fangs?" He shot Jiang a sideways look, one eyebrow raised. "Now you sound like one of the greenhorns swapping spook stories around the fire. Next, you'll be telling me they're led by a ten-foot demon with eyes of fire."

Jiang frowned, the dismissal prickling slightly. He knew what he'd seen. "They're real enough."

"Oh, I'm not saying some band of cutthroats called the Hollow Fangs doesn't exist, or didn't at some point," Han conceded, rubbing a hand over his beard. "But the way folk talk about 'em? An army of bandits, hundreds strong, led by a cultivator, slipping through the magistrate's fingers for years on end?" He shook his head. "That's the stuff of legend, kid, not the reality of the road. Think about it. A group that large, that dangerous? They wouldn't just be a nuisance; they'd be a threat to the entire province. The magistrates, the Sects even, they wouldn't stand for it. They couldn't afford to. They'd have hunted them down like plague rats, every last one."

He gestured vaguely at the passing trees. "Banditry, like I said, it's a short, miserable career for most. A gang managing to stick around for years? Just wouldn't happen. It would be like… like finding a full-grown wolf hiding in a sheep pen. Someone would notice."

Han grunted, adjusting his grip on the reins as the oxen navigated a patch of icy mud. "The Hollow Fangs… it's a good name; I'll give 'em that much. Scary. Memorable. My guess? It's a name that's been recycled, passed down from one sorry gang of thugs to the next. Easier to scare a village into handing over their grain if they think you're the boogeymen their grandfathers whispered about, eh? Makes 'em feel more important than they are." He snorted again. "Truth is, most of these 'infamous' bandit lords end their careers dangling from a rope or with a gut full of cheap steel from one of their own mates."

Jiang listened, saying nothing. Han's logic was sound, from a certain point of view. It made sense of the world as a caravan master would see it, a world of calculated risks and practical dangers. But it didn't account for what Jiang had seen, the sheer number of bandits that had overwhelmed Liǔxī, the chilling efficiency of their attack. Han's version was a tamer, more manageable evil. Jiang knew the Hollow Fangs were something more.

Han's expression closed off, easygoing posture vanishing in an instant as he jerked back on the reins and brought the wagon to a halt. His hand dropped to the crossbow beside his seat.

The man on the road watched with a polite smile as the caravan shuddered to a halt in front of him. It was a thin, precise curve of his lips that didn't carry an ounce of warmth, his dark eyes fixing on Han Shu with an unblinking, predatory focus. He looked utterly at ease, despite facing down a large group with no apparent backup. The confidence sent a warning shiver down Jiang's spine.

"Han Shu," the man's voice was smooth, almost melodious, but it sliced through the quiet of the caravan like a whetted blade. "Fancy meeting you all the way out here. It has been far too long, wouldn't you agree?"

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