Chapter 8: Crossing the Threshold
Morning came without gentleness. Thin light crept across stone and dust, slipping into the cave like an intruder testing its welcome. The assassin opened his eyes before it reached him, senses already awake, body tense.
The corpses outside lay where they had fallen.
Blood had dried dark against the rock. Flies hovered, drawn by the smell. He stepped past them without a glance and rinsed his blade in a nearby stream, the water running red for a moment before clearing.
Resolve steadied him.
He moved on.
The land rose gradually as the day progressed, hills turning to uneven slopes, paths breaking into winding trails barely marked by use. Sparse trees clung to the earth, their roots exposed, leaves whispering softly in the wind. This was no longer border territory.
This was the threshold.
Cultivators favored such places. Too harsh for common folk. Too resource-poor for cities. Perfect for those who survived by strength alone.
By noon, he sensed it.
Qi.
Not faint like his own. Not wild like a beast's.
Controlled.
He slowed, melting into shadow behind a ridge of stone, eyes scanning the area ahead. A narrow valley opened below, its floor scattered with boulders and scrub. At its center stood a crude camp: a fire pit, bedrolls, wooden crates.
Four men occupied it.
They wore mismatched armor, robes layered beneath metal, weapons resting casually at their sides. Their postures were loose, but not careless. These were not bandits.
Independent cultivators.
One of them laughed loudly, tossing something into the air and catching it. A spirit stone.
"Easy work," the man said. "That beast nest paid better than expected."
"Don't get used to it," another replied. "This area's drying up. Sects are pushing outward."
The assassin listened quietly.
Information was more valuable than coin.
He watched their movements, their spacing, the subtle way qi flowed around them. Weak. All of them. Barely above his own level, but healthier, better fed, better equipped.
Four against one.
He considered avoidance.
Then dismissed it.
Resources.
Experience.
Testing.
He descended the slope silently, using the terrain to break sightlines. Pebbles shifted beneath his feet; he adjusted instantly, redistributing weight, minimizing sound.
When he was close enough, he struck.
The first man died without ever realizing he was in danger. The assassin appeared behind him, blade sliding into the gap beneath the skull, severing spine and breath in one smooth motion.
The body fell.
Shouts erupted.
"What the—"
The assassin did not slow.
He lunged toward the second man as qi flared wildly in response. Steel met steel. Sparks burst. The man stumbled back, surprised by the force behind the blow.
"You dare—"
The assassin drove his knee into the man's abdomen, collapsing his defense, then twisted his blade upward. Blood sprayed across the dirt.
The third cultivator reacted faster, retreating and forming hand seals. Qi gathered at his palm, unstable but dangerous.
The assassin rolled aside as a blast of compressed air tore through the space he had occupied, smashing into a boulder and shattering stone.
Pain flared in his side as he rose.
The fourth man fled.
Smart.
The assassin ignored him.
He sprinted toward the qi-wielder, footwork carrying him across uneven ground with unnatural speed. Another blast flew toward him. He ducked low, the force ripping over his head, hair whipping violently.
He closed the distance and threw a dagger.
The blade struck the man's wrist, disrupting the flow of qi. The cultivator screamed as energy backfired, tearing through his own channels.
The assassin finished him with a thrust through the chest.
Silence fell again, broken only by labored breathing.
He stood still for several breaths, listening, scanning. No pursuit. The fleeing man was gone.
He began looting immediately.
Spirit stones. Dried rations. A low-grade cultivation manual, its pages worn thin. A jade slip etched with basic qi circulation notes.
His fingers tightened around the slip.
Useful.
Very useful.
[Combat assessment: Favorable.]
[Threat engagement improved.]
He ignored the system and sat cross-legged near the fire pit. He placed the jade slip against his forehead, following instinct.
Knowledge poured in.
Crude, incomplete, but structured.
Paths for qi circulation that did not rely on emotion or desperation. Methods meant for stability, not speed.
He opened his eyes slowly.
"This would slow me down," he said.
[Observation: Correct.]
"But it would keep me alive."
The system did not respond.
He took a spirit stone and began cultivating, merging the new knowledge with his own unstable method. Qi flowed reluctantly at first, resisting change, then gradually adapted.
Pain followed.
Not sharp.
Deep.
Structural.
He clenched his teeth and endured as his channels shifted, reinforced in places, widened in others. Sweat poured down his face. Blood seeped from reopened wounds again.
He did not stop.
Minutes stretched into hours.
Finally, the qi settled.
Denser.
More controlled.
[Qi foundation stabilized.]
His breath shuddered as relief washed through him.
So this was balance.
Not mercy.
Not cruelty.
Control.
He stood, testing his movement. His steps felt heavier, but more grounded. His strikes would be slower—but stronger.
A trade.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, he burned the camp, leaving nothing behind. Evidence invited pursuit.
He climbed higher into the hills, following a narrow trail that wound toward distant peaks. Snow capped their tips, faint but unmistakable.
Mountains.
Sects.
Real cultivators.
He paused on a ridge and looked back once.
Behind him lay cities, forests, caves, blood, and hesitation.
Ahead lay blades sharp enough to end him without apology.
He welcomed that clarity.
[New region entered.]
[Cultivation difficulty increased.]
[Survival probability recalculated.]
He smiled faintly.
"Good."
And without looking back again, he crossed fully into the land where legends were either forged—
Or buried.