Chapter 9: Blood Debt
Night swallowed the mountains without warning.
Clouds rolled low, swallowing starlight, turning the narrow path into a ribbon of darkness. The assassin moved steadily, every step measured, breath controlled. The air here was thinner, colder, carrying the scent of pine and iron-rich stone.
Qi felt heavier.
Not oppressive, but watchful.
He sensed it before he saw it.
A disturbance.
Voices, sharp and strained, carried faintly through the wind. Metal clashed once, followed by a cry cut short. He halted instantly and slid off the path, crouching behind a jagged outcrop.
Below him, the trail widened into a natural platform carved into the mountainside. A broken cart lay overturned, its wooden frame splintered. Cloth bundles had spilled across the ground, torn open, contents scattered.
Three bodies lay motionless.
Two men and a woman, their clothing plain but sturdy. Merchants or low-level cultivators. Blood pooled beneath them, dark and fresh.
Four others stood nearby.
They wore the same symbol on their sleeves: a black crescent pierced by a vertical line.
Assassin Sect.
His jaw tightened.
"So that's the route they're using," one of them said, nudging a corpse with his foot. "Mountain passes. No witnesses."
"Strip the rest," another replied. "Leave the bodies for the beasts."
A third laughed. "Senior Brother will be pleased. Easy contribution points."
The assassin's pulse slowed.
This was not coincidence.
This was debt.
He studied them carefully. Two early-stage Qi Condensation. One slightly stronger. The leader stood apart, arms folded, eyes sharp, aura restrained but solid.
Stronger than him.
Not by much.
He considered leaving.
Then remembered the system's words.
Control.
He moved.
A stone flicked from his fingers, arcing through the dark and striking the far cliff wall. The sharp crack echoed loudly, exaggerated by the mountain air.
All four turned.
"Who's there?" the leader demanded.
The assassin dropped from above.
He landed hard, rolling once, coming up with blade already drawn. The nearest man barely had time to react before steel cut across his throat. Blood sprayed, warm against cold air.
The second cultivator drew his weapon and charged, qi flaring wildly. The assassin stepped inside the arc of the swing, shoulder slamming into ribs. Bone cracked. He stabbed upward.
The man screamed.
The leader barked an order and advanced, sword glowing faintly as qi wrapped around the blade. The remaining member retreated, forming hand seals.
The assassin did not pursue.
He backed away deliberately, putting distance between himself and the leader, forcing the others to reposition.
The qi technique came first.
A blade of compressed wind screamed toward him. He dropped flat as it sliced overhead, tearing stone from the cliff behind him.
He sprang up and threw two daggers in rapid succession.
One missed.
The other struck the retreating cultivator in the thigh. He collapsed, seals breaking, technique dissipating violently and rebounding through his body.
The assassin rushed him and ended it.
Steel rang as the leader closed the distance.
Their blades met.
The impact numbed his arm.
Strength.
Refined.
The leader pressed forward relentlessly, attacks precise, each strike aimed to maim rather than kill. The assassin retreated step by step, using terrain, parrying narrowly.
"You're not one of ours," the leader said calmly. "But you fight like you were trained by us."
The assassin said nothing.
He shifted stance, letting qi flow deeper, heavier, grounding his movements. He absorbed the next blow instead of deflecting it, twisting his body to redirect force.
Pain flared.
He welcomed it.
He countered low, blade skimming across the leader's leg. Blood bloomed, but shallow.
The leader smiled thinly. "So you chose stability."
They circled.
The mountain wind howled between them.
The assassin feinted left, then drove forward with everything he had. Steel clashed repeatedly, sparks lighting the darkness. The leader retreated once, then twice.
The assassin felt it.
An opening.
He lunged.
The leader's sword pierced his shoulder.
White pain exploded.
But the assassin did not stop.
He stepped into the blade, trapping it against bone, and drove his own weapon upward, into the leader's chest.
The man stiffened.
Shock crossed his face.
They stood locked together for a breath.
Then the assassin twisted and ripped the blade free.
The leader fell.
Silence returned.
The assassin staggered back, blood soaking his arm. He pressed a hand against the wound, breath uneven, vision swimming.
[Severe injury detected.]
[Blood loss critical.]
He forced himself to move.
He searched the bodies quickly, tearing open storage pouches. Spirit stones spilled into his hands. Pills. Crude healing salves.
He crushed a pill between his teeth and swallowed, grimacing as bitterness flooded his mouth. Heat spread through his veins, dulling pain, slowing the bleeding.
He tied off his shoulder with cloth torn from a corpse's robe.
Efficient.
Unceremonious.
He dragged the bodies to the edge of the platform and pushed them over. They vanished into darkness, tumbling silently.
Only the broken cart remained.
He paused.
A small bundle lay untouched near the wreckage. He picked it up and unfolded the cloth.
Inside was a wooden token.
Smooth.
Worn.
Etched with a simple character for "home."
His fingers tightened.
A memory surfaced unbidden. A woman kneeling in dirt. Hands trembling. Blood on her sleeves. Eyes that refused to look away.
His mother.
The world dimmed.
For a moment, the mountain vanished, replaced by smoke, screams, cold iron.
He inhaled sharply and forced it down.
Weakness invited death.
He burned the cart and scattered the ashes.
Then he climbed higher, ignoring the tearing pain in his shoulder, following the path until dawn began to pale the horizon.
At a narrow ledge overlooking a deep ravine, he finally stopped.
He sat, back against stone, and closed his eyes.
Qi moved sluggishly, disrupted by injury, but it moved.
He guided it carefully, reinforcing damaged channels, sealing ruptures. It was not healing.
It was survival.
[Blood debt registered.]
[Target classification updated: Assassin Sect.]
[Hostility status: Irreversible.]
He opened his eyes.
The sun crested the peaks, casting gold across the mountains.
"They found me," he said quietly.
[Correction: You found them.]
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Good."
He stood and continued forward, deeper into the mountains, where sect banners flew and true cultivators walked openly.
Where enemies would no longer hide in shadows.
And where his name, once whispered in fear, would one day be spoken aloud—
As legend.