Chapter 151
Morning came with blood.
Not fresh, but dried—dark stains streaking the ravine walls where the night's violence had splashed and settled. The settlement moved quietly, voices low, eyes wary. Death was common here, but every loss still weighed, a reminder that survival was never guaranteed.
Shenping woke with his body screaming.
Every internal pathway felt flayed open, raw and unstable. The wild cultivation from the night before still churned inside him, refusing to settle. When he tried to sit up, pain knifed through his chest and spine, forcing a sharp breath from his lips.
"You're awake," a voice rasped.
The old man sat nearby, crouched over a shallow bowl filled with dark liquid that steamed faintly. He did not look at Shenping as he spoke.
"You should be dead," the man continued. "Or crippled. Possibly both."
"I've heard worse odds," Shenping replied hoarsely.
The old man snorted and finally turned, eyes scanning Shenping with unsettling precision. "You tore your internal channels open and survived. That means two things."
"And those are?"
"Either you're blessed," the man said, "or cursed badly enough that the world hasn't figured out how to kill you yet."
He pushed the bowl forward. "Drink."
Shenping sniffed it. Bitter. Metallic. Alive with raw energy. "What is it?"
"Regret," the old man said. "Fermented beast marrow and crushed spirit-root. It'll hurt."
Shenping drank.
Agony exploded through him.
The liquid burned down his throat and detonated in his core, flooding his damaged pathways with violent heat. He bit down hard, refusing to scream as muscles locked and vision blurred.
The old man watched closely. "Guide it," he commanded. "Don't fight it. Don't welcome it. Let it pass."
Shenping forced his focus inward.
He stopped trying to control the energy.
Instead, he observed it.
The wild power raged like a storm, crashing against torn channels, threatening to rip them wider. Shenping followed its flow, nudging it subtly, redirecting it through paths that hurt less, resisted less.
Slowly, painfully, the storm thinned.
The heat faded to a dull ache.
Shenping slumped back, drenched in sweat, breathing hard.
The old man nodded once. "You learn fast."
"What do I call you?" Shenping asked.
The man hesitated. "Names get eaten by time," he said finally. "But once, they called me Han Zhi."
Shenping inclined his head. "Teacher."
Han Zhi's eyes flickered. "Careful. Titles create expectations."
"I already have those," Shenping replied.
Outside, the settlement stirred. Qiao Mu stood near the ravine's edge, barking orders, her presence steadying the others. She glanced toward the shelter, meeting Shenping's gaze briefly.
Something unspoken passed between them.
Han Zhi followed his look. "She'll die young if she keeps leading like that."
Shenping frowned. "Why?"
"Because leaders draw attention," Han Zhi said. "And attention here is blood."
Shenping was silent.
He had seen that pattern before—villages erased, bloodlines hunted, all for the sake of future calculations.
"I won't let that happen," he said quietly.
Han Zhi laughed, sharp and humorless. "Everyone says that."
The ground trembled faintly.
Not violently.
Purposefully.
Han Zhi's expression hardened. "That's not the forest."
Shenping felt it too—a pressure like distant footsteps pressing against the skin of reality.
Cultivators were coming.
Not feral ones.
Organized.
Clans.
Qiao Mu shouted orders as scouts ran in, breathless. "They're marked," one cried. "Three banners. Bone Crow. Iron Root. Ash Meridian."
Han Zhi stood, joints cracking. "Predators," he muttered. "They smelled the blood last night."
Shenping pushed himself to his feet despite the pain. "They're here for the settlement."
"No," Han Zhi corrected. "They're here for you."
Shenping looked toward the forest as figures began to emerge between the trees—robes intact, eyes cold, cultivation controlled and lethal.
He felt the convergence stir faintly within him, damaged but eager.
This era had noticed him.
Now it was testing whether he deserved to remain alive.
And Shenping stepped forward to answer.