Aoyagi Ren

When he spoke, his voice was hoarse—scraped raw by years of battle rather than age. It carried no anger, no urgency, only a calm that had nothing left to prove.

""You’re still counting heads," he said, voice light with amusement. That smile never reached his eyes.

He shook his head, almost disappointed.

"Still thinking numbers will save you."

The air shifted instentenly.

A dense wave of killing intent spread outward, heavy and feral, pressing low against the ground. The mountain pass seemed to constrict beneath it, wind stalling, Qi turning sluggish as if weighed down by something it didn’t want to touch.

Several Silent Fang members stiffened, expressions tightening despite themselves. Even without firsthand experience, the Iron Butcher Union’s reputation was well known throughout the region—brutal methods, demonic techniques, and a complete disregard for survival beyond the mission.

Before the tension could break, another presence stepped in , Minazuki Haru stepped forward, his qi flaring outward in a controlled pulse that disrupted the killing intent before it fully solidified. The pressure dissipated, leaving the forest eerily quiet. His gaze remained sharp and calculating as he lifted a hand.

"Enough," he said coolly. "If we fight here, the Outer Sect Guards will sense it. And once they do, it won’t matter how strong you think you are."

His eyes flicked briefly toward the surrounding mountains, where unseen watchers might already be listening.

"This is Nether Abyss Mainland. To them, we’re insects. You won’t get the bounty. You’ll get hunted."

The Iron Butcher cultivators bristled. Cao Jin opened his mouth, rage already boiling over. "We’ll kill you first, then the brat, and be gone before those dogs even—"

"Shut up."

The calm voice cut through him like a blade.

The speaker stood just behind Ren, his presence quiet but far more dangerous. The group’s sensor. Second-in-command. His eyes never left the forest ahead.

"We cooperate," he said flatly. "The sect is already watching. A large disturbance will only shorten our lives."

Cao Jin clenched his fists, veins bulging, but he didn’t argue further. Without the sensor, their chances of surviving bounty work dropped sharply.

Ren’s gaze shifted back to Minazuki Haru. After a long moment, he nodded once.

"Fine."

Haru allowed himself a thin, measured smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. "We ambush him together," he said evenly. "Split the reward. Ten thousand low-grade spirit stones each." He paused briefly, watching Ren’s face. "No unnecessary bloodshed between us."

Ren didn’t react at once. His gaze drifted past Haru, unfocused, as if considering something else entirely. Only after a quiet breath did he speak. "After the target is dead," he said, voice low and unhurried. "Then we settle accounts."

The pause that followed weighed heavier than any argument.

No one objected.

No one pushed back.

Even the air seemed to hesitate, as if waiting to see who would breathe first.

The agreement took shape without ceremony. Temporary. Fragile. Held together by nothing sturdier than shared greed and mutual restraint. Everyone understood the same thing. Cooperation was temporary.

But for now—

The two groups melted into the forest, slipping into position with practiced ease.

And somewhere ahead, Xuanyan continued walking, unaware that his pursuers had just doubled.

Xuanyan noticed the two outer disciples the moment they stepped into his path—but only because they were standing there with deliberate intent. Their robes were ordinary, their cultivation unremarkable, their expressions carefully neutral in the way of people who wished to blend in while doing the opposite.

He didn’t slow his pace. He didn’t tense. He continued forward, treating them as nothing more than poorly placed obstacles along the road.

Outwardly, his expression remained calm, almost absentminded. Inwardly, however, his senses brushed against something faint and unpleasant, like the residual chill left behind by a blade recently drawn and not yet returned to its sheath.

It wasn’t hostility aimed at him directly—not yet—but it lingered close enough to keep his instincts alert, crawling just beneath the surface of his awareness.

Qin Ling flicked his gaze sideways, just enough to catch his elder brother’s eye. He did not turn his head fully, nor did he raise his voice. His lips barely moved as he spoke, the words slipping out in a controlled murmur, sharp and restrained, like steel drawn just far enough to taste blood.

"Should we act now?" he asked quietly. "He’s only one stage above us. If we strike together—"

Qin Bing did not look at him.

His posture remained loose, almost careless, as though he were merely another disciple lingering near the path. One hand rested near the hilt of his sword, fingers relaxed, neither tense nor eager. There was no killing intent leaking from him, no obvious hostility for others to sense.

Only his eyes betrayed the truth—heavy, focused, and unmoving, fixed on the figure in the distance with the patience of a predator that had already chosen its moment.

"No," he said.

The word was soft, spoken without emphasis, yet it carried absolute finality.

"Not yet."

Qin Ling frowned slightly, irritation flickering across his face before being quickly reined in. "They’re delaying," he muttered. "If we wait too long—"

"They will arrive," Qin Bing interrupted calmly, his voice steady and devoid of emotion. "And when they do, timing will matter more than force. Our task isn’t to kill him here."

That made Qin Ling pause.

"Then what?" he asked after a moment.

Qin Bing’s gaze finally shifted, sweeping briefly across the path ahead before returning to its original focus. His expression did not change, but something colder settled behind his eyes.

"We delay him," he replied calmly."Keep him busy reacting instead of acting." His fingers brushed the sword hilt once, not in anticipation, but in quiet confirmation.

"With our demonic technique," Qin Bing continued evenly, "a single stage advantage won’t matter. If he hesitates—even for a breath—that will be enough."

Xuanyan passed between them, close enough that he could have reached out and brushed their sleeves if he wished. He did not slow, did not glance sideways, did not give them even the courtesy of acknowledgment. He took one measured step beyond them, his pace unbroken, his posture unchanged.

Then the air shifted.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone lacking sharp senses—but to him, it was unmistakable. Two strands of killing intent flared behind him at the same instant, sharp and sudden, stripped of all pretense. The pressure struck his back like invisible needles, precise and deliberate, perfectly synchronized.

At the same moment, both men moved. Fingers tightened around sword hilts. Steel whispered softly as blades began to slide free, their timing exact, their coordination practiced.

And then—

They stopped.

The sound of steel halted mid-motion, swords hovering a single inch from being fully drawn.

Because Xuanyan had stopped walking.

He stood with his back to them, posture straight, shoulders squared, as though he had merely paused to consider something trivial. From the outside, he appeared calm, almost absentminded. Inside, his breath slowed by force of habit, his senses flaring outward in sharp, instinctive focus.

For half a breath, nothing happened.

Then a thin sheen of cold sweat formed along his brow, entirely at odds with the warmth of the air.

It wasn’t just the two behind him.

That truth settled with unpleasant clarity as his perception stretched outward. Presences brushed against the edges of his awareness—more than two, moving quickly, not rushing directly toward him but circling instead.