The Black Claw's camp sprawled along a river's bend, its muddy banks littered with crates and broken blades, the air thick with grease and sour ale. Torchlight flickered on the water, casting jagged shadows across tents patched with hides. Men laughed, coarse and loud, their voices clashing with the grind of whetstones and the clink of stolen coin. At the camp's heart, a broad tent loomed, its flaps stained with blood and soot, a bear's skull nailed above the entrance. Inside, Deng Kao, the Black Claw's chief, hunched over a splintered table, his scarred hands tracing a crude map of the Ye Clan's valley.
Deng's frame was heavy, muscle layered over bone like a butcher's slab, his face a patchwork of old cuts, one eye clouded white. His qi pulsed—Body Tempering 7, raw and jagged, a storm barely leashed. Goru's loss, twice now, burned in his gut—a thorn no ale could dull. The Lin Clan's scout had slipped through camp hours ago, whispering of a wanderer who broke elders, leaving a scroll and a promise: aid for blood. Deng's lips curled, a wolf's grin. The valley's spark—whatever it was—smelled of power, and he'd carve it out.
A wiry man, Ruan Ji, lounged nearby, his foxlike face half-lit by the brazier's glow. A rogue cultivator, Body Tempering 5, his twin daggers spun lazily in his hands, their edges notched from kills. "Goru's a fool," Ruan drawled, voice slick as oil. "Two routs? Your dog's got no teeth."
Deng's fist slammed the table, wood creaking. "Goru's mine. The wanderer's the problem—snapped Hao's wrist like a twig. Lin Tao's ribs too."
Ruan's daggers paused, his smirk fading. "Lin Tao's no pup—Body Tempering 6. This wanderer's got qi?"
"Too much," Deng growled, shoving the map aside. A clay jug sat heavy with rice wine; he swigged, the burn sharpening his glare. "Ye rats are nothing—starved, broken. But him? He's no drifter. Fights like a sect dog, moves like a ghost."
Outside, the camp stirred—men hauled logs, piling a crude raft to cross the river come dawn. A scout, face bruised from Ye Clan snares, tossed a dented helm into the mud, cursing. "They've got traps now," he spat, loud enough for Deng to hear. "Stakes, wards—damn wanderer's work!"
Deng's clouded eye twitched, his qi flaring—a gust rattling the tent's flaps. "Wards," he muttered, fingers drumming. "Lin Clan's scroll said he's tricky—runes, stones. Sounds like old sect shit."
Ruan leaned forward, daggers still, his eyes glinting like a fox scenting blood. "Old sect, huh? Iron Fang's got no love for rogues stirring their turf. You think he's one of theirs?"
"No," Deng said, voice a low rumble. "Iron Fang trains pups like Hao—flashy, weak. This one's… deeper. Lin Clan wants him dead, though. Offered a qi shard for his head."
Ruan whistled, low and sharp. "Shard's worth a year's raids. You trust 'em?"
"Don't need to," Deng said, swigging again. "We hit at dusk—raft over, burn their gate, gut the wanderer. Shard's a bonus."
The tent flap rustled, and a woman slipped in—Lian, Deng's tracker, her frame lean as a blade, qi faint at Body Tempering 3. Her hair was cropped short, one ear scarred from a wolf's bite, her eyes darting like a hawk's. She dropped a bundle on the table—torn blue silk, Ye Clan dirt still clinging, and a snapped arrow fletched with crane feathers. "Lin Clan's circling," she said, voice clipped. "Found this west of the valley. They're not waiting for you."
Deng's grin faded, his hand crushing the silk. "Tao's greedy—thinks he'll scoop us. What else?"
"Smoke," Lian said, tapping the map. "Valley's quiet, but the ravine's humming—qi, strong, like a vein waking. Wanderer's digging, I bet."
Ruan's daggers spun again, his smirk back. "Ravine, huh? Sounds like loot. You sure you want the Lin Clan's scraps?"
Deng stood, his bulk casting a shadow over the brazier, qi spiking—mugs rattled, the air heavy. "I want his head," he said, voice a landslide. "Loot's for winners. We move tonight—forty men, rafts, fire. No mercy."
Lian's eyes narrowed, her fingers brushing the arrow. "Forty's loud. Wanderer's sharp—traps tore Goru's boys apart. You're betting big."
"Big wins big," Deng snapped, kicking a crate; it splintered, spilling rusted blades. "Goru's soft—crawled back whining. I'm not him."
Ruan chuckled, leaning back, daggers catching the light. "Bold, chief. Hope your spine's harder than his ribs."
Deng's hand shot out, grabbing Ruan's collar, qi flaring—a gust snuffing the brazier's flame. "Laugh when he's dead," he growled, shoving him back. Ruan caught himself, grinning, unbothered, but his daggers stilled, respect flickering in his eyes.
Lian stepped between them, her voice cold. "River's high—rafts'll hold, but slow. If Ye Clan's ready, we bleed first."
"Then they bleed last," Deng said, turning to the map, tracing the valley's curve. "We land here—north bank, straight to their gate. Wanderer's mine. You two, flank—cut their legs."
Ruan nodded, spinning a dagger. "I'll take the girl—quick one, with the braid. Sounds fun."
Lian's lip curled, but she said nothing, pocketing the arrow. Outside, the camp roared—men chanted, blades clashed in mock fights, rafts creaking as ropes tightened. A boy, barely ten, scurried past with a torch, his face smudged with ash, dodging a drunkard's kick. The river churned, its current a low growl, mirroring Deng's pulse.
He swigged the last of the wine, tossing the jug—clay shattered, shards glinting in the dirt. The map showed Ye Clan's gate, a crude X marking the wanderer. "He's one man," Deng muttered, more to himself. "One man."
Lian's eyes flicked to him, sharp. "Goru thought so. Lin Tao too."
Deng's laugh was a bark, his qi spiking again—tent poles groaned. "They're weak. I'm not. We'll crush 'em, shard or no shard."
Ruan stood, stretching, daggers sheathed with a flourish. "Hope you're right, chief. My coin's on the girl gutting half your boys first."
Deng ignored him, stepping to the tent's flap, the river's stench hitting hard—mud, fish, blood. His men moved like wolves, eyes glinting with greed, blades sharpened for dusk. The raft pile grew, logs lashed tight, barrels of pitch stacked for fire. He scanned the horizon—Ye Clan's valley, a faint smudge past the trees, its spark calling like a beacon.
Lian followed, her voice low, urgent. "Chief, that ravine—qi's not normal. I've tracked beasts, ruins—never felt this. Wanderer's tied to it, I swear."
Deng's clouded eye fixed on her, his grin gone. "Then we take it. Whatever he's got, it's ours."
Ruan lingered by the table, his fingers brushing the Lin Clan's silk, his smirk sly. "Iron Fang's watching, you know. Lin Hao's their pup—means they smell the same spark. We're not alone in this."
Deng spun, qi flaring—a crate burst, splinters flying. "Let 'em watch! Black Claw takes what it wants—sects, clans, wanderers. All bleed the same."
Lian's jaw tightened, her hand on the arrow. "Blood's cheap. That ravine's not. If Iron Fang moves—"
"They won't," Deng cut in, stepping outside, his voice booming to the camp. "Load the rafts! Dusk hits, we burn Ye Clan to ash! Wanderer's head is mine!"
Men cheered, a feral roar, blades raised, torches flaring. The river gleamed, its current a mirror for their hunger. Ruan slipped out, daggers glinting, his chuckle soft. "Big talk, chief. Hope your head stays on."
Lian stayed, her eyes on the map, tracing the ravine's mark. "Chief," she said, voice a blade, "I scouted west—found tracks, not wolves'. Human, cloaked, qi like ice. Not Lin Clan, not ours."
Deng froze, his hand on a torch, qi stilling—a rare pause, his clouded eye narrowing. "Cloaked?"
"Aye," Lian said, stepping close, her voice dropping. "Chanting, faint—like a ritual. Felt… wrong. If that's tied to the wanderer—"
"Enough," Deng snapped, but his grip tightened, the torch's flame wavering. "We hit Ye Clan, take the valley, then deal with ghosts. You're jumping at shadows."
Lian's gaze held, unyielding. "Shadows with qi don't lie. Chief, if this is bigger than—"
A horn sounded—sharp, not theirs, from the river's far bank. Deng's head snapped up, Pulse Sense—crude but strong—catching silk flashing through the trees, blue and silver, not Black Claw's rags. His grin returned, feral, as he grabbed his axe, its double blades notched with old blood.
"Lin Clan's early," he growled, raising the axe, men rallying behind. "Or Iron Fang's sniffing. Either way, we—"