The rice sack hung heavy between us, thumping against my thigh with every step. Xiao Lan had looped a strap through its mouth and slung it over her shoulder, but she kept glancing at me like I might keel over.
"You're shaking," she said.
"Not shaking. Settling." My voice sounded far away, like it belonged to someone else. Inside my chest, the stolen qi swirled—gritty, unpolished, but undeniably mine now. It sat low in my dantian, a lump of coal glowing dull red.
We found a shaded spot under a lone pine. Xiao Lan dropped the sack, pulled out a handful of rice, and started rinsing it in a trickle of water. I sat with my back against the trunk, jade resting on my knee. The black vein had crept another finger-width up my arm, fine as a spider's thread.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
"No." I flexed my hand. "Feels full. Like I ate too much."
She snorted. "Qi isn't food. It remembers where it came from."
The words landed heavier than they should have. I thought of the cleaver man's eyes—how they'd gone blank when his breath left him. Not dead, not yet, but something essential gone.
Xiao Lan built a small fire, careful to keep the smoke thin. While the rice steamed in a battered pot she'd produced from somewhere, she sharpened her knife on a flat stone. The rasp-scratching rhythm matched my pulse.
"You ever kill before?" she asked, not looking up.
"No. You?"
"Once. Uncle tried to sell me to a passing caravan. I was ten." Her stone moved steady, methodical. "Knife went in easier than I thought. But the feeling after... that stuck."
I swallowed. The jade warmed, as if listening.
When the rice was done, we ate straight from the pot, burning our fingers. Simple stuff, but after yesterday it tasted like feast. Halfway through, a cramp hit my gut—sharp, twisting. I doubled over.
Xiao Lan steadied me. "Too fast. Your meridians aren't ready for that much."
The pain crested, then ebbed, leaving me sweating. The qi inside me had shifted, smoothing out, finding new paths. My breath came deeper now, chest expanding without effort.
"Better?" she asked.
"Yeah." I straightened. The world looked clearer—pine needles sharp, the smoke curling like it had purpose. "Like I grew a new lung."
She eyed me a long moment, then poked my arm where the vein showed. "This is going to keep spreading. You know that, right?"
"Maybe." I touched the line. It didn't feel foreign anymore. "Or maybe I'll learn to feed it something else."
"Doubtful. Those things have minds of their own."
The fire crackled down to embers. We packed up, rice sack lighter now. As we walked, the sun slanted gold through the branches, turning everything warm and slow.
Half a li on, Xiao Lan stopped. "Hear that?"
I did—hoofbeats, distant but coming fast. Two riders, maybe three. Not bandits; their rhythm was trained, horses breathing in sync.
Xiao Lan pulled me off the path into thick brush. We crouched, watching. The riders passed: imperial scouts by their armor, feathers on their helmets nodding. One carried a rolled scroll sealed with red wax.
"Official business," she whispered. "Tournament postings, maybe."
I felt the jade stir, interested. "What tournament?"
"The Nine Clans thing. Happens every three years. Winners get scrolls, techniques, sometimes even a title." She grinned, crooked. "Or die trying."
The hoofbeats faded. We waited until the dust settled, then stepped back onto the path.
"Mount Hua's sending delegates," she added. "If you're looking for a place to land."
I thought of the mill, the inn, the stream. Places I'd already outgrown. The vein on my arm pulsed once, like agreement.
"Maybe," I said.
We walked on. The rice sack swung between us, lighter now but still there—a reminder that borrowed things always come due.