The morning was cold.
Not just in temperature, but in soul. The kind of cold that seeped beneath the skin, that whispered not to stay too long.
A pale fog clung low to Jinshui Village, lingering like the last breath of something long dead. It wasn't the malicious mist they had encountered days ago—this one was quieter, lighter. But it held the same silence. The same heaviness.
Li Yuan Tian led the group eastward, toward the edge of the village where the orchard met broken farmland. His steps were measured, his eyes sharp. Behind him followed Fei Zhi, Chen Lei, Shui Rong, and Wang Tu—each bearing the same unease, their weapons half-drawn.
The fields were overgrown, with reeds poking up through dried, cracked irrigation canals. The scent of damp wood and rusted iron lingered in the air like a wound that refused to heal.
"Something's off," Chen Lei muttered, scanning the treeline. "It's like… the whole place stopped breathing."
Fei Zhi was the first to spot it.
"Over here."
They gathered quickly around a burned cart, overturned beside a collapsed barn. The frame was twisted, but it wasn't the fire damage that drew attention—it was the symbols.
Etched into the charred wood were black markings. Not painted. Not carved. Branded.
Wang Tu narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. "What is that? Looks like some kind of character… but not in any language I know."
Shui Rong knelt down, gloved fingers brushing the edge of the mark. The black layer crumbled like dry ash, yet beneath it the wood remained untouched—unburned.
"That's not natural fire," Chen Lei said, stepping closer. "I've seen something like this before. During a border skirmish near the Dead Peaks. The residue left behind by—"
He paused.
Fei Zhi finished for him, voice low. "Spirit flame. Twisted qi."
The group fell into silence.
"You're certain?" Yuan Tian asked, eyes sharp.
"I've only read about it," Fei Zhi admitted. "In old, forbidden texts—things I wasn't supposed to see. Marks like this… they're used by demon cultivators. To corrupt, to bind spiritual spaces, even to curse."
Wang Tu shifted nervously. "So… what, this village was used for demonic rituals?"
"Or something worse," Shui Rong murmured.
Fei Zhi inhaled slowly. "We don't know for sure. It could be imitation. Or a warning. But if it's real—we're too weak to face what might be behind it."
No one argued.
They moved deeper into the abandoned stretch of homes nearby. Rotten doors hung off hinges. Roofs were collapsed. Some windows had broken outward—glass scattered on the ground as though something had fled in terror, or been forced out.
Inside, they found remnants—fragments of burned talismans, some scrawled with runes drawn backward. Others were cracked in half, broken precisely where spiritual protection symbols should have been strongest.
Shui Rong held up a piece of bone. It was yellowed and brittle, shaped like part of a human finger. His face darkened.
"Not animals," he said softly. "They did something to people here."
They passed a small house where a line of ash circled the entire structure. Inside, nothing but black soot and torn prayer scrolls remained.
"No bodies," Wang Tu said. "Still no bodies."
"That's the worst part," Chen Lei added. "Where did everyone go?"
Finally, near the center of the ruined orchard, they came upon the old well.
The stones were moss-covered, and vines had crept across the frame like veins on skin. But it wasn't just overgrowth that drew their attention—it was what hung from the snapped rope inside.
A crude bundle. Twisted feathers, strands of hair—some white, some clearly human—and at the center, a finger bone, tied with a strip of blood-stained paper.
The group stared, unmoving.
Even the wind had stopped.
Fei Zhi broke the silence with a whisper. "That's a sealing charm. Crude, but old. You only use that kind of thing to… trap something. Or mark a place of great death."
Yuan Tian's gaze hardened. "What do they want with a village like this?"
Fei Zhi didn't look up. "To experiment. To feed. To build. Sometimes… to grow."
Shui Rong took a step back, his voice cold. "This is no longer reconnaissance. This is a graveyard."
Wang Tu swallowed. "Or a lab. For monsters."
"We're leaving," Yuan Tian said, the command sharp and immediate.
Chen Lei frowned. "Are you sure? We're already this deep. If we leave, we might never learn the truth."
Yuan Tian turned to him, eyes steel. "And if we stay, we might never leave."
There was no more argument.
They began moving, fast but careful, retracing their steps back through the orchard and past the burned cart. Even the air seemed to resist them now—heavy, thick with unseen pressure.
---
By noon, they were miles away, marching beneath the canopy of dense pinewoods that lined the road out of Jinshui.
The fog had lifted, but a weight remained.
No one spoke much.
Chen Lei kept glancing behind them. Shui Rong hadn't taken his hand off his blade once. Even Fei Zhi—normally curious to a fault—was quiet, his journal clutched tightly under one arm.
Wang Tu broke the silence first. "We were lucky. Another day in that place and we might've ended up on that rope."
Fei Zhi nodded grimly. "If those markings were authentic, it's not just corruption. This is preparation. Something is starting."
Li Yuan Tian didn't slow. "Then we'll report it. The academy needs to know."
Shui Rong's voice was tight. "And if they don't believe us?"
"They will," Yuan Tian said. "Because we're not the only ones who'll smell what's coming."
Behind them, deep beneath the cracked shrine in Jinshui Village, a faint red glow pulsed once—slow and rhythmic, like the beat of a heart awakening.