Two days had passed since the bandits began their march through the forest.
The slaves walked in a long, staggering line, connected to each other by rough hemp ropes that bit into their necks and wrists. Their feet dragged through the undergrowth, leaving trails in the dirt and fallen leaves. No one knew where they were going. No one dared to ask.
The forest around them had begun to change. The trees were thinning out, growing farther apart, allowing shafts of sunlight to pierce through the canopy and reach the ground below. It should have been a welcome sight after days of walking in perpetual shadow. Instead, it only reminded the prisoners of how far they had come from anything familiar.
Nalan Ziyan walked somewhere in the middle of the line, her head bowed, her eyes fixed on the feet of the person in front of her. Every step was an effort. Her legs felt like they were made of stone, and her stomach had long since stopped growling—it had moved past hunger into a kind of hollow emptiness that made her dizzy and weak.
The bandits fed them once a day, if it could be called feeding. A small piece of dried meat, hard as leather and tasting of nothing. A single cup of water, barely enough to wet the throat. It was just enough to keep them alive, to keep them walking, to keep them valuable as merchandise. Anything more would be a waste of resources.
Ziyan's throat was so dry that swallowing hurt. She tried not to think about the stream she had been sitting beside when the bandits found her, the clear water bubbling over smooth stones. She tried not to think about the rabbit she had been cooking, the smell of roasting meat filling the air. That felt like a lifetime ago now.
No one in the line spoke. They had learned quickly what happened to those who made noise.
Yesterday, two men near the front of the line had begged for water. They had been walking for hours under the hot sun, and one of them—an older man with gray in his hair—had started to stumble and fall behind. His companion had called out to the bandits, asking, pleading for just a little more water.
The bandit leader had walked back to them slowly, almost casually. He hadn't said a word. He had simply drawn the whip from his belt and begun to strike. Again and again, the leather bit into flesh, opening wounds on backs and arms and faces. The sound of the whip cracking was terrible, but the screams were worse.
When it was over, both men were bleeding on the ground. The bandits had kicked them until they got up and started walking again. No one had asked for anything since.
During the journey, they were attacked twice by creatures from the forest.
Spirit Beasts, the bandits called them. Animals that had absorbed spiritual energy from the world and grown beyond their natural limits. The first attack came from a pack of wolves with silver fur and eyes that glowed faintly in the shadows. They were faster and stronger than normal wolves, but still no match for cultivator bandits. The fight was over in minutes.
The second attack was worse. A massive boar, its tusks as long as swords and its hide covered with what looked like stone plates, had charged out of the undergrowth without warning. It had torn through the line of slaves before anyone could react, its tusks ripping through flesh and bone. Three people died in that first charge—an old woman, a young boy, and a man who had been walking directly in the boar's path.
The bandits killed the beast eventually, working together to bring it down with coordinated attacks. But they didn't stop to help the wounded. They didn't even slow down to let the survivors catch their breath. They simply cut the dead from the line, left their bodies where they fell, and kept marching.
Two more had died since then. One from his wounds, which had festered in the heat. Another from simple exhaustion—her heart had given out during the night, and she had been found cold and stiff when the bandits came to wake them the next morning.
Fifty slaves had started the journey. Forty-five remained.
Ziyan walked in a kind of daze. Her mind had retreated somewhere deep inside herself, hiding from the reality of her situation. She didn't think about the past—about her father, her village, her short-lived dreams of revenge. She didn't think about the future—about where she was being taken, what would happen to her when she arrived. She just walked. One foot in front of the other. Again and again. Forever.
The bandit leader's voice cut through her numbness like a knife.
"Stop here. Everyone stop."
The line shuffled to a halt. Ziyan lifted her head slightly, just enough to see what was happening without drawing attention to herself.
They had entered a clearing, a wide open space where the trees fell away and the sky opened up above them. The bandits were gathered near the front of the line, talking among themselves in low voices. One of them—a thin man with a scar across his nose—had left the group earlier that morning. Now he was returning, and he wasn't alone.
Four figures walked behind him.
They moved differently from the bandits. Where the bandits swaggered and slouched, these newcomers walked with precision and purpose. Their steps were silent, their postures were straight, and their presence seemed to fill the clearing in a way that made everyone else feel smaller.
All four wore masks that covered their faces completely. The masks were made of some kind of polished black material, featureless except for narrow slits for the eyes. Their clothes were dark and well-made, clearly expensive, a stark contrast to the bandits' mismatched and travel-worn gear.
The bandit leader, who had strutted around like a king for the past two days, was suddenly bowing. Actually bowing, his head lowered, his hands clasped in front of him in a gesture of respect.
"These are the goods we brought," he said, his voice much softer than usual. "Please, have a look."
One of the masked figures stepped forward. It was a woman—Ziyan could tell from the shape of her body and the way she moved. She walked toward the line of slaves with the casual confidence of someone who had nothing to fear from anyone present.
As she approached, Ziyan felt something strange. A pressure in the air, an invisible weight that made it hard to breathe. It was the woman's aura—the spiritual energy that radiated from her body, so dense and powerful that even Ziyan's limited senses could detect it.
This woman was strong. Incredibly strong. Far beyond the spirit snake Ziyan had killed, far beyond the bandits who had captured her. This was someone who existed on an entirely different level of power.
Ziyan didn't know what realm this woman had reached. Her knowledge of cultivation ranks was still limited. But she knew, with absolute certainty, that this person could kill everyone in the clearing with a wave of her hand. The bandits, the slaves, all of them—they were insects compared to her.
The masked woman walked slowly along the line of slaves, examining each one with cold, calculating eyes. Most of the prisoners couldn't meet her gaze. They stared at the ground, trembling, knowing instinctively that they were being evaluated like livestock at a market.
The woman stopped in front of Ziyan.
For a long moment, those eyes—visible through the slits in the mask—studied her. Ziyan forced herself to stay still, to keep her head bowed, to show nothing. The necklace hidden under her clothes suddenly felt warm against her skin, as if it were working harder than usual to conceal her true nature.
Then the woman moved on.
She finished her inspection and pointed at five people in the line. Ziyan was one of them. The other four were girls around her age, all of them relatively healthy despite the hardships of the journey.
"These five," the woman said. Her voice was deep and cold, carrying an authority that brooked no argument. "Separate them from the rest."
The bandits rushed to obey. Rough hands grabbed Ziyan and pulled her out of the line. She was pushed to her knees in front of the masked woman, along with the four other chosen girls. The ground was hard and rocky, and her knees ached from the impact.
The woman reached into a pouch at her waist and produced a small bag. She tossed it to the bandit leader, who caught it with both hands and nearly dropped it anyway.
"One hundred and twenty Energy Stones," she said. "Count them if you wish."
Energy Stones.
The words triggered something in Ziyan's memory. Knowledge from the necklace, information that had been implanted in her mind along with the cultivation technique. Energy Stones were the currency of the cultivation world, crystallized spiritual energy that cultivators used for everything from buying supplies to powering techniques. They were far more valuable than gold or silver. In some ways, they were more valuable than human lives.
One hundred and twenty stones. For five people. Twenty-four stones per person.
That was her worth. Twenty-four Energy Stones. Less than what a spirit beast core might sell for in a decent market.
The bandit leader counted the stones quickly, his eyes gleaming with greed. "It's all here," he said, bowing again. "A pleasure doing business with you."
The masked woman ignored him. She had already turned her attention back to the five kneeling girls. From somewhere in her robes, she produced a yellow paper covered with strange symbols and diagrams.
A talisman. Ziyan recognized it from the knowledge in her mind. A one-use magical item, powered by spiritual energy, capable of producing effects far beyond what the user could normally achieve.
The woman swept the talisman through the air in front of them.
Immediately, Ziyan felt something wrap around her body. Invisible ropes, made of pure energy, coiled around her arms, legs, and torso. She tried to move, tried to struggle, but her body wouldn't respond. The binding was complete and absolute.
The other girls whimpered and cried, but Ziyan stayed silent. She watched with wide eyes as the masked woman reached into her robes again and produced something that looked like a toy—a tiny boat, no bigger than her palm, carved from some kind of dark wood.
The woman threw the boat into the air and spoke a single word.
"Expand."
The boat began to grow.
Ziyan watched in disbelief as the tiny toy swelled larger and larger, its wooden hull stretching and expanding until it was the size of a real vessel. Within seconds, it had grown large enough to carry a dozen people comfortably. And it wasn't resting on the ground—it was floating in the air, hovering several feet above the earth without any visible support.
A Flying Boat. A Spirit Boat. A vessel powered by spiritual energy, capable of carrying passengers through the sky.
Ziyan had known such things existed. The knowledge from the necklace had told her about them. But knowing something existed and seeing it with her own eyes were two very different things. This was magic. Real magic, right in front of her, undeniable and incredible.
The masked woman gestured, and an invisible force lifted all five girls off the ground. They floated through the air like leaves caught in a gentle wind, deposited onto the deck of the Flying Boat with surprising softness. The deck was covered with cushioned seats, far more comfortable than anything Ziyan had experienced in weeks.
"We're leaving," the woman announced.
She stepped onto the boat herself and took her position at the bow. The other three masked figures remained on the ground, watching silently. The bandit leader was already walking away, counting his Energy Stones again, eager to return to his remaining slaves and continue his business.
The boat began to rise.
Ziyan's stomach lurched as the ground fell away beneath them. She instinctively grabbed the edge of her seat, her fingers digging into the cushion. The other girls were crying now, some with their eyes squeezed shut, others staring at the shrinking earth with expressions of pure terror.
But Ziyan couldn't look away.
They rose higher and higher, passing through layers of air that grew colder and thinner. The forest below became a carpet of green, stretching to the horizon in every direction. Rivers cut through the trees like silver ribbons. Mountains rose in the distance, their peaks capped with snow.
And above them, the sky.
It was so blue. So vast. So impossibly beautiful.
Ziyan had never seen the world from this height. She had never even imagined it. In her village, the tallest thing she had ever climbed was the old oak tree near the river, and that had seemed so high at the time. Now she was higher than birds flew. Higher than clouds drifted. Higher than anything she had ever conceived.
The masked woman stood at the bow of the boat, unmoving, controlling their flight with subtle gestures of her hands. She didn't speak to the girls. Didn't explain where they were going or what would happen to them. To her, they were cargo. Property. Things to be transported, not communicated with.
Their mouths were still gagged anyway. Even if they had wanted to ask questions, they couldn't have spoken.
But Ziyan didn't mind the silence. For this moment, despite everything—despite being a slave, despite being bound by magic, despite not knowing what horrors awaited her—she was at peace. The wind against her face was cold and clean. The world below was beautiful beyond words. And for the first time in her life, she understood just how vast the world really was.
They flew for nearly two hours.
Then, on the horizon, something appeared.
A city. The largest structure Ziyan had ever seen.
Black walls rose from the earth like mountains made by human hands, so tall that they seemed to scrape against the sky itself. Guards walked along the tops of those walls, tiny as ants from this distance. Beyond the walls, thousands of buildings crowded together—houses and shops and towers of every size and shape. Some of the towers reached so high that their peaks disappeared into the clouds.
The Flying Boat began its descent.
As they approached, Ziyan could see more details. The streets below were packed with people. Vendors sold goods from colorful stalls. Cultivators walked openly, their weapons displayed, their spiritual energy visible as colored glows around their bodies. Some rode on the backs of spirit beasts—horses with flaming manes, great cats with multiple tails, birds large enough to carry three or four passengers.
This was a cultivator city. A place where power was everything and ordinary mortals were less than nothing.
Ziyan felt small. Insignificant. A grain of sand in an endless desert.
But somewhere deep inside her, a spark remained. A tiny flame that refused to die, no matter how hard the world tried to extinguish it.
Someday, she told herself. Someday I will fly through this sky on my own. Not as a slave. Not as cargo. As a power in my own right, bowing to no one.
The boat descended into the city. Ziyan watched the crowds pass beneath her, not knowing what fate awaited her, but refusing to abandon hope.