Cries of battle faded into groans of pain and the crackle of hastily lit fires. Blood soaked the roots of ancient trees, and shattered branches hung like broken bones above the caravan's halted line. The Ghost-Claw Macaques that had fallen were left where they lay—twisted bodies sprawled across the ground, eyes still wide with feral hatred.
Only one corpse was treated differently.
The Macaque King.
Zhang Hu stood beside it, saber planted in the earth, as a mercenary knelt before him and reported with a clenched jaw.
"Captain… out of the fifteen, five are dead. Three are heavily injured—broken bones, deep claw wounds. They won't be able to march without help."
Zhang Hu closed his eyes for a brief moment.
Five.
He opened them again, gaze hard as iron. "Names?"
The mercenary recited them. Each name landed like a hammer strike, but Zhang Hu did not flinch.
"And the others?"
"Scratches and shallow wounds only. Shen Mei took a claw to the shoulder—deep, but not life-threatening. She's already had it treated."
Zhang Hu nodded once. "Good. See that she doesn't push herself."
The mercenary hesitated, then added, "The King's corpse has been secured."
Zhang Hu turned.
Several men were already at work around the fallen Macaque King, their expressions grim but focused.Thick, iron-dark claws were severed and wrapped in talisman cloth. Its dense bones were split, spirit marrow carefully extracted. The hide was peeled away in large sections, faint Qi still lingering within the flesh.
Spirit Beast Kings were too valuable to waste.
By contrast, the bodies of the ordinary Ghost-Claw Macaques were left untouched. Their flesh was coarse, their cores weak—hardly worth the risk of lingering longer than necessary.
Once the butchering was complete, Zhang Hu raised his hand.
"Powder."
A pair of mercenaries stepped forward with gray-white sacks. As they walked the perimeter, they scattered a fine, pungent powder across blood-soaked earth, shattered wagons, and broken trees. The scent of iron and death dulled, then vanished entirely, swallowed by the sharp medicinal aroma.
Beast-repelling powder.
Expensive. But cheaper than another ambush.
The caravan did not move for six hours.
Wounds were bound. The injured were stabilized and placed on reinforced wagons. The dead were wrapped and laid to rest beneath the forest soil, their names carved hastily into tree bark.
Hanyuan sat cross-legged atop a wagon, quietly circulating Qi. His Dantian still felt thin and strained, but the Qi of the forest flowed more gently now, no longer turbulent. From a short distance away, Shen Mei sat with her back against a wheel, her wounded shoulder wrapped tightly in cloth stained red.
She noticed his gaze and smirked faintly. "Don't look so serious, kid. I've had worse."
"I believe you," Hanyuan replied honestly.
When the sun dipped and the forest shadows lengthened, Zhang Hu gave the order.
"Move out."
The caravan rolled forward once more.
This time, the air felt different.
The oppressive weight that had clung to the inner-outskirts was gone, as if the forest itself had acknowledged their passage. No cries echoed from the trees. No shadows followed them from branch to branch.
The hardest stretch had been crossed.
By the next day, stone replaced soil beneath their wheels. The trees thinned, and distant walls rose on the horizon—tall, gray, and solid.
The city gates.
A cheer rippled through the caravan, subdued but sincere. Exhausted men straightened in their saddles. Even the wounded lifted their heads.
The Merchant Leader nearly wept as the guards inspected the wagons and waved them through. "Goods delivered intact," he murmured.
Zhang Hu did not smile.
He watched the caravan enter the city, eyes sharp, mind already tallying costs and debts—blood weighed against coin, lives against safe passage.
Five mercenaries would not be returning home.
But the road had been claimed.
And in this world, that was the price of survival.
The city at the end of the Northern Pass was known as Iron Wall City—a fortress of stone and industry that served as a gateway between the Southern Continent's wilderness and the northern trade hubs. As the caravan's wheels clattered over the smooth obsidian-paved streets, the vibrant noise of the city market finally drowned out the haunting echoes of the Macaque King's shriek.
They came to a halt in the livery of the Li Clan's local branch. The Merchant Leader, his fine silk robes now dusted with the grime of the trail, immediately vanished into an office with the local bailiffs to begin the arduous process of unloading.
The mercenaries remained in the courtyard.
Zhang Hu stepped toward the center of the yard, his massive saber still strapped to his back. He gestured for the surviving ten mercenaries to gather, including Hanyuan.
A clerk from the Li Clan followed the Captain, carrying several heavy, jingling pouches and a few small jade boxes.
"We lost five brothers," Zhang Hu said, his voice a low growl that demanded silence. "Their families in Spirit Springs City will receive triple the usual compensation from the Li Clan's insurance and my own cut. The road was hard, but the contract is finished."
One by one, he called out names, handing over pouches of spirit stones. When he reached Hanyuan, the Captain paused. The surrounding mercenaries, who had initially viewed the boy as a "pampered noble brat," now looked at him with nods of genuine respect.
"Bai Hanyuan," Zhang Hu called.
Hanyuan stepped forward.
"You weren't just a passenger," the Captain said, handing him a small, carved wooden chest instead of a simple pouch. "Your spear kept my flank clear during the ambush. Within this box is your share of the Macaque King's spoils—specifically, a phial of its fermented heart-blood and two of its obsidian claws. It's better than coin for a cultivator."
Hanyuan accepted the box, feeling its weight. The heart-blood of a High-Grade Tier 1 Beast was a potent resource for someone in the Qi Refining realm; if refined properly, it could drastically speed up the tempering of one's muscles.
"Thank you, Captain Hu," Hanyuan said, bowing deeply.
"Save your bows," Zhang Hu grunted, though a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Keep that spear sharp. The next time we meet, I expect you to be at the 4th Layer at least. Don't let your talent go to waste in those clan training halls."
As the group dispersed to find a local tavern and wash away the blood of the forest, Shen Yumei lingered behind. Her shoulder was still heavily bandaged, but her movements were as fluid as ever. She leaned against a stone pillar, watching Hanyuan.
"Heading straight back home after the goods are traded, little Hanyuan?" she asked.
"My father's arrangement only covered the one-way journey," Hanyuan replied, looking at the city walls. "I think I'll stay here for a week.
Yumei reached into a pouch at her belt and tossed him a small, blue silk handkerchief wrapped around something solid. "Consider this a tip from your Auntie. It's a low-grade Spirit Condensation Incense. Light it when you cultivate; it'll help you focus your Qi and heal those micro-tears in your meridians from that frost technique."
Hanyuan caught it, the scent of lavender and sandalwood wafting from the cloth. "Aunt Yumei, I can't—"
"Quiet, kid," she laughed, waving a hand dismissively.
With a wink, she turned and followed Zhang Hu toward the inner city.
Hanyuan stood alone in the quiet courtyard for a moment. He looked down at his hands. They were covered in small nicks and scars that no medicine had yet wiped away. His White Disciple Robes were ruined—stained with dirt, boar fat, and macaque blood.
He didn't mind.
Back in Spirit Springs City, Xueling was likely emerging from the Spirit Cleansing Pool, her skin radiant and her Qi boosted by the clan's purest resources. She would look down on him as a "loser" who couldn't even make the top three.
Hanyuan gripped his blackened steel spear. He could feel the cold Qi humming within the metal, responding to the iron in his will.
"One day I will stand above all of you, and even if my path leads through hell itself, I will pursue my spear techniques until they reach the apex."