Morning arrived over Qiang City like a calm verdict.
Sunlight spilled across tiled roofs and stone streets, washing away the scars of the night before. Broken walls were already being rebuilt, debris cleared not by panic but by routine—this was not the first time the city had endured violence, nor would it be the last.
And yet, the air was different.
Word had spread quickly.
Qiang Hao had returned.
Another victory was added to his name, spoken not with exaggeration but with certainty. Merchants whispered it as they opened their stalls. Guards straightened their backs as they took their posts. Even cultivators passing through lowered their voices, instinctively respectful of a city guarded by a mountain.
By midday, the celebration began.
It was not a grand festival, nor an indulgent display of wealth. Qiang City did not celebrate with excess. Instead, tables were placed along the main streets, food and drink shared freely, laughter echoing between buildings that still bore the weight of history.
Zhao Ming found himself drawn into it.
Someone pulled him to sit.
Another filled his cup.
Stories of the night spread like fire, each retelling growing slightly larger, slightly more dramatic. The Owl became a shadow demon, a calamity from beyond the borders. Qiang Hao became immovable fate itself.
Zhao Ming listened quietly.
He did not correct them.
He did not embellish.
He simply observed.
At one point, his gaze drifted toward the city gates. Beyond them lay the road—dusty, long, uncertain. For the first time since he could remember, the sight did not tighten his chest.
He stayed a little longer.
When the sun began its descent, when laughter softened and cups emptied, Zhao Ming stood.
He thanked those who had welcomed him.
He bowed to those who had protected the city.
And finally, he turned away.
At the gates, he paused.
The city behind him stood firm, unchanged, guarded by a presence he could barely comprehend. Ahead lay a world that had once chased him, hunted him, forced him to flee without direction.
Zhao Ming inhaled slowly.
Then he stepped forward.
His pace was steady.
Not hurried.
Not desperate.
He was still running.
But this time—not away.