The wind changed.
As Rael and Yue stepped out of the crypt, the stale, airless pressure that had haunted them inside gave way to a new scent — a sharp, electric tang carried on highland winds. It smelled of storms. Of mountain stone. Of distance.
Cloudvein.
Rael's boots crunched over shattered bone and ash as they crossed the desolate path beyond the crypt's mouth. The darkness behind them seemed reluctant to release them, and for a moment, Yue glanced back, her eyes distant.
"Something was watching us in there," she murmured.
Rael didn't answer. He was still reeling.
Not from the battle.
But from the silence in his mind — the hole where a memory used to be.
He couldn't name it, couldn't see its shape, but he knew it was gone.
That absence made him feel… incomplete.
He hated that feeling.
"Temporary trait: Ashen Sense still active."
"Duration remaining: 18 hours."
Faint emotional imprints flickered around him — the fear of ancient pilgrims etched into stone, the stubborn pride of a warrior long dead still lingering in shattered armor.
He ignored them.
Yue finally broke the silence. "Where to next?"
Rael pulled out the worn map they'd taken from the crypt's offering stone. Thin parchment, sealed with bone wax and inked in faded runes.
"The Cloudvein Continent," he said. "Southwest route — through the Vale of Spears."
Yue arched a brow. "That's bandit territory."
Rael looked at her, his voice cold.
"Good. I need to sharpen something."
---
Three days later.
The Vale of Spears wasn't named for nothing.
Jagged stone spires jutted from the earth like the remains of a shattered battlefield — each 'spear' tall as a watchtower and sharp as divine punishment. Crows circled overhead. The land was dry, broken, littered with rusted blades and sun-bleached bones.
Rael walked calmly, his cloak pulled tight.
Yue scouted ahead, her steps light.
The sun painted the spears in gold and shadow. But danger lived in those shadows — not monsters, but men.
They came in silence.
Dozens of them. Gaunt faces. Makeshift armor. Eyes dulled by desperation.
Bandits.
Their leader was thin, wrapped in scavenged qi robes. His voice echoed across the cracked valley.
"You shouldn't have come here, traveler. That fancy sword won't feed you. But your flesh might."
Yue scoffed. "How poetic."
Rael didn't stop walking.
The man's eyes narrowed. "Oi—did you hear me?"
Rael's voice cut through the dry air.
"I heard. I just don't care."
The first arrow flew.
Yue deflected it mid-air with a crescent slash of moonlight.
Rael vanished.
In less than a breath, he was among them.
His movements weren't just fast — they were perfect. Every motion precise, every strike fatal. His body moved like a blade, and his mind worked faster than ever — not because of instinct, but calculation.
He's aiming left — shift center of gravity. Three steps — turn into sweep. Don't kill. Cripple.
He ducked low, grabbed a spear's haft, and twisted — sending one man flying into another. A kick to the knee. A palm to the throat. A roll beneath two swords.
When he emerged, six men were down.
The others hesitated.
Rael turned to face the leader.
"You said my sword wouldn't feed me," he said coldly. "But your fear might."
The man's bravado cracked.
Yue appeared behind him, blade resting against his neck.
"You may want to rethink your diet."
---
They left the bandits bound and bruised, tied to one of the tallest spears with their weapons broken at their feet.
Rael stood at the edge of the Vale, watching the mountains in the distance.
Cloudvein was near.
A continent known for its deadly cultivation sects, strange beasts, and lost arts of qi engineering. The city at its center, Linhai, was called the Spire of Silver Death — a place where ambitious cultivators competed for techniques that could tear stars from the sky.
Yue joined him.
"We could go around," she said, brushing dust from her robes.
Rael shook his head.
"We go through. I need what's in there."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're hunting a technique?"
Rael's gaze narrowed.
"No. I'm hunting a name."
---
Far ahead, at the edge of Cloudvein.
In a crumbling monastery guarded by wind and silence, a hooded figure knelt before a well of black water. His skin was marked with seals that pulsed with dying flame.
He exhaled, and the water rippled — showing Rael's face.
The man's lips curled into a smile.
"So, the boy found the Fourth Brand."
He reached forward and dropped a black feather into the well.
"He'll find me before long."
Then he stood.
Behind him, rows of disciples in bone-white robes turned their eyes skyward, their chants rising.
The winds howled.
And the Spire of Silver Death began to shine.