Larin returned to his post, his fingers tracing the cold metal of each trap, checking the mechanisms with practiced precision. The tension in the springs was perfect, the triggers aligned just so, and the concealed traps gleamed dully under the fading light. He ran his thumb along the edge of one, feeling the sharpness bite lightly into his calloused skin. No misfires. No mistakes. He had set everything meticulously, but now his plans had shifted.
The air carried the scent of damp earth and old leaves, the forest around him whispering with every gust of wind. He crouched low, pressing his palm against the soil, feeling the faint hum of life beneath—weak, but still clinging on despite centuries of imperial rule. The trees here were sparse, their trunks thin and twisted, their branches reaching like skeletal fingers toward the sky. He had intended to stay, to guard this stretch of land, but the faces of the people he had rescued lingered in his mind—their hollow eyes, their trembling hands. They had been forced into servitude, their wills crushed beneath the Empire's heel. He couldn't ignore that.
With a slow exhale, he pulled out a sheet of parchment, the paper rough under his fingertips. Dipping his quill into a small inkwell, he wrote in tight, deliberate strokes, detailing the locations of each trap, their triggers, their dangers. The ink smelled faintly of oak gall, sharp and tannic. He rolled the letter tightly, sealing it with a drop of wax that hissed as it cooled. The Border Fort would need to station people here-this stretch of land, which he now called the Empire's Fall, would require watchful eyes. He needed them ready to receive more survivors.
His boots crunched over dry twigs as he moved away from the traps, his pack resting heavily against his shoulders. The weight of his weapons-his obsidian shardstone dao, his bow-was familiar, comforting. He had told himself, his voice low and steady in the silence of his own mind, The easier way is killing everyone. But there is no shortcut to freedom. I won't kill anyone mindlessly. The words settled in his chest like a vow.
The land ahead stretched endlessly, an expanse of plains broken only by the occasional gnarled shrub or meandering stream. The water glinted under the sunlight, thin and shallow, its flow weak from years of imperial neglect. In the distance, the horizon was interrupted by small, rolling hills, their outlines blurred by the haze of heat and dust. He remembered the estate-Tyrapi's land, where he had performed the Hsa ritual. The memory of that place was vivid: the way the earth had shuddered beneath his palms, the scent of blooming life bursting forth after decades of sterility. That was where he would go first.
The journey took six hours, the sun arcing across the sky, its light shifting from gold to amber as evening approached. He avoided the main roads, sticking to the shadows of sparse tree lines and the cover of shallow ravines. The occasional patrol of imperial soldiers passed in the distance, their armor clinking faintly, their voices carrying in disjointed echoes. He pressed himself low against the ground, his breath slow and controlled, until their footsteps faded.
When he reached the estate, the air was thick with the scent of turned soil and young greenery—proof that the land had remembered life. The trees here were healthier, their leaves fuller, their branches swaying gently in the evening breeze. Then, like a breath against his ear, a whisper came. His father's voice, sharp with concern. "Why are you here!"
The connection thrummed between them, a thread of awareness woven through Sinlung's bond. He could sense his father's presence now, a steady pulse of energy somewhere within the estate. The Xiaxoan link was always active during warfare, a silent web tying kin together unless deliberately severed.
Larin moved without hesitation. His body blurred as he activated [Veilstep], the world around him distorting for the briefest moment before he reappeared several paces ahead. He wove through the trees, his footfalls silent, his movements a flicker between shadows. The estate grounds opened before him, and there, nestled in a wooded clearing, was the camp.
Twenty-five figures moved with quiet efficiency-sharpening blades, checking supplies, speaking in hushed tones. The scent of smoke from a low-burning fire curled through the air, mingling with the musk of sweat and leather. And there, seated on a weathered crate, was Zakop, his father. Pupi and Hwehwe stood at his side, their expressions shifting from focus to recognition as Larin stepped into the light.
"Reporting, chief," Larin declared, his voice steady.
For a few breaths, silence hung over the camp. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the distant call of a night bird. Then his father leaned forward, the crate creaking under his weight. His eyes, dark and assessing, locked onto Larin's. "You're a long way from home, my son. Your feats have reached our ears, but we are yet to celebrate. Come, be briefed about our situation."
Larin stepped closer, the damp grass brushing against his boots. Zakop gestured to the makeshift map spread across a nearby table, its edges weighted down by stones. "We have about 20 bases like this, but this is the main one. Tyrapi, the owner, was actually quite helpful, mentioning you every chance they could. You must've done quite a deal for them." A grin tugged at Zakop's lips, pride and amusement flickering in his gaze.
He continued, "We do not travel in groups larger than a hundred. Warships patrol high in the sky, and skirmishes must be kept under two hours, or backup arrives." His finger tapped against the map, marking invisible routes and danger zones.
Larin listened, absorbing every detail. The air smelled of ink and damp paper, the map's surface slightly wrinkled from moisture. When it was his turn, he recounted his recent actions-the rescued villagers, the coercion they had endured. He suggested moving people slowly toward Xiaxo, in small groups, clearing hidden pathways for travel.
Pupi, arms crossed, shook his head. "We should target military checkpoints first. Destabilize their hold. Make it harder for them to regroup." His voice was firm, his stance unyielding.
Larin considered it. The idea had merit. Attacking their supply lines, their communication hubs-it would force the Empire to scatter its forces. After a moment, he nodded. "You're right. That might be the better approach."
Near the end, Larin asked the question weighing on him. "Are our bases compromised?"
Hwehwe answered, her voice low but clear. "No, but we still have to shift locations every other day or more. When we strike, we obviously have to move immediately. The Empire seems distracted, but it doesn't hesitate to encircle us when it can."
The final plan was set. Each leader would lead an attack on a military outpost at midnight. If the objective wasn't achieved within two hours, they would retreat. If successful, they would hold the position, using the outpost's anti-mana cannons-designed to repel Xiaxoan aerial fleets-against the warships. Taking one down entirely would be difficult, but forcing a landing would be enough. Once a post was captured, nearby guerrilla units would converge, reinforcing it with a hundred fighters. They couldn't gather beforehand-aerial surveillance made large movements impossible.
As the meeting dispersed, Larin turned to his father. "We'll need to move fast. The moment we strike, they'll know."
Zakop nodded, his expression grim. "Then we strike hard, and we disappear before they can retaliate."
Pupi adjusted the straps of his armor. "And if they send a warship?"
Hwehwe smirked. "Then we shoot it down."
Larin looked at each of them, the resolve in their eyes mirroring his own. "Then let's begin."