A howling midnight gale tore across the jagged razor-peaks dividing the civilized commanderies from the untamed western wilderness. Frost clung to the ragged gray plumage of the Wind-Chasing Cloud Roc as its massive wings beat desperately against the violent rough churning, each stroke sending plumes of freezing vapor trailing into the black sky.
Strapped into the leather flight saddle, his silk merchant robes shredded by sub-zero winds and crusted with sleet, Patriarch Lu Feng leaned over the beast’s feathered neck, his knuckles frozen white around the reins.
“Hold on, old friend,” Lu Feng pleaded, his voice hoarse from shouting into the storm. “Just thirty more li! Just past the Mist-Veil Gorge!”
The roc let out a strained, wheezing cry, its golden eyes clouded with tiredness. For fourteen hours, without a single pause for water or grain, the amazing aerial beast had flown eighteen hundred li through high-sky jet streams. Lu Feng had not even stopped to pack his personal ledgers or change out of his trading house slippers. Just then, the emergency magic charm flared in his private study.
The Heavenly Sword Manor had declared a total commercial quarantine. His flagship pavilions in seven cities had been seized by armed sect guards, his accounts frozen. An execution warrant issued for his clan on charges of treasonous collusion with demonic entities. Had his trusted steward not tipped him off ten breaths before the guards kicked down the pavilion gates, Lu Feng’s cut head would already be hanging from the city castle walls.
Ahead, through the parting squall clouds, the dark, rolling expanse of the Grand Desolate Forest emerged under the moonlight like a sleeping emerald dragon.
The roc’s left wing seized, locked by muscular fatigue and ice. The great bird tilted sideways, tumbling out of the high airstream in a spiraling descent.
“Down! Glide toward the clearing!” Lu Feng shouted, hauling back on the leather straps with every ounce of his modest Foundation Establishment qi.
With a shuddering screech, the roc skimmed over the towering canopy of hundred-year pine trees, shearing off pine boughs before crashing heavily onto the soft, grassy riverbank just outside the safe hall’s shimmering mist boundary. The bird slid fifty paces through wet loam, coming to a halt with its wings sprawled flat against the earth, panting in utter tiredness.
Lu Feng tumbled from the saddle, rolling across the dew-soaked grass. He scrambled to his hands and knees, spitting out a mouthful of river sand. His velvet traveling boots were torn, his stitched sash dragged through mud. His face was as pale as bleached linen.
“Sect Master Lin!” Lu Feng croaked, stumbling toward the boundary stones where carved wooden signs welcomed travelers in gentle calligraphic script. “Sect Master Lin! Emergency! Disaster!”
A low, underground rumble shook through the earth beneath his feet.
The surrounding moonlight seemed to warp and bend. Before Lu Feng could take another three steps, the shadows cast by the surrounding willow grove peeled away from the grass. He rose into a towering, three-space-folding dark shape of pure liquid darkness.
From the black vortex emerged a huge beast twelve feet in length. Its fur was midnight-black, swallowing the starlight, while fine, detailed silver star-pattern runes glowed along its muscular shoulders. Two eyes burning like deep, unblinking rubies locked onto the shivering merchant, streaming a terrifying pressure that pinned Lu Feng’s knees to the turf.
It was Xiao Hei—the Starry Eclipse Moon-Wolf King.
Lu Feng’s breath caught in his throat. He had met the wolf before, but in the dead of night. He stood before a legendary beast that had slaughtered demonic elders, the sheer apex-hunting beast presence was paralyzing.
Xiao Hei sniffed the air. The crimson glow in his eyes softened. Recognizing the scent of the friendly merchant who often brought barrels of salted beef ribs and candied dried fruit from the mortal towns, the huge wolf exhaled a warm gust of air that ruffled Lu Feng’s damp robes.
With a soft, fluid shimmer, the twelve-foot nightmare hound collapsed inward, shrinking in the blink of an eye until he was roughly the size of a cheerful, sleek black retriever.
Wuff.
Xiao Hei trotted forward, nudging Lu Feng’s trembling knee with a cold, damp nose, letting out a soft whine of greeting before turning around and gesturing with his bushy tail toward the inner pathway.
“T-take me to him, Xiao Hei,” Lu Feng gasped. He grabbed his bruised ribs as he struggled to his feet. “Every heartbeat matters! The sky is falling!”
Xiao Hei trotted ahead along the smoothly paved cobblestone lane. He looked back sometimes to ensure the out-of-breath human didn’t trip over his own torn hem.
Ten minutes later, Lu Feng was ushered through the sliding cedar doors of the central lake pavilion.
The inside was warm, fragrant with the scent of burning sandalwood and drying chamomile herbs. Soft yellow light radiated from hanging spirit-glass lanterns. Seated around a low table of polished storm-cedar was the safe hall’s inner circle: Su Ling’er, elegantly reviewing a scroll of agricultural yields. Tie Shan, snoring softly with his arms crossed over his massive bear chest. And Sword Saint Gu Qingfeng, sitting against a timber pillar, lazily scraping dirt from beneath his fingernails with a small silver knife.
And resting comfortably on a plush velvet cushion in the center of the table was a semi-clear azure slime, currently balancing a wooden teacup lid on top of his head.
“Ah, Patriarch Lu!” Lin Xiao greeted him, his pleasant deep resonating through fluid surface shakes. “You’re back early! Did you manage to find those fine china fermentation crocks from the kiln masters in Changhe? We were just discussing—”
“Sect Master Lin!” Lu Feng dropped to his knees before the table, his forehead nearly striking the cedar wood. His hands shook wildly as he reached into his torn tunic. He hauled out an encrypted silk battle roster sealed with dried crimson wax. “Forget the crocks! Forget the trade routes! You must sound the retreat! You must evacuate the safe hall this very hour!”
Tie Shan’s snoring ceased instantly. The bear elder’s single good eye cracked open with sudden sharpness. Gu Qingfeng paused his knife-scraping, cocking an eyebrow. Su Ling’er gently set down her scroll, her nine white tails rising in quiet alert.
“Catch your breath, Patriarch Lu,” Lin Xiao said soothingly, tilting his round body forward. An azure slime arm sprouted from his side, gently nudging a warm cup of herbal tea across the table toward the merchant’s trembling hands. “Drink some warm water first. You’re shaking like a wet leaf.”
“I can’t drink, Sect Master!” Lu Feng cried, unrolling the silk map with wild, jerky motions. “Look! Look upon this! It’s an Orthodox Crusade! Heavenly Sword Manor has mobilized five great sects! Grand Elder Xuan Ji has declared the Desolate Forest an unholy demon den! Thirty thousand fighters! Twelve flying war galleons! Five thousand fire fighters from Crimson Flame Pavilion, six thousand wind vanguards from Azure Cloud, five thousand magic charm masters, and four thousand warrior monks from Pure Lotus!”
Lu Feng’s voice rose into a ragged sob. “They’re marching on the Grand Defile even as we speak! Xuan Ji has sworn an old family blood oath to burn this entire valley to glass, slaughter every beast, and enslave every mortal soul who aided you! You can’t fight five sects, Sect Master! It’s thirty thousand flying swords! You must pack the spirit stones, load the young ones onto the shadow wolves, and flee into the western mountain ranges before the defile is sealed!”
The merchant collapsed against the table, his chest heaving, tears of genuine terror and despair cutting through the dried grime on his cheeks.
A heavy silence settled over the cedar pavilion.
Tie Shan frowned, his massive iron hands resting upon his knees. Gu Qingfeng took a slow sip of wine from his chipped gourd, his expression unreadable.
Lin Xiao extended his slime arm, lifting the silk map and scanning the detailed troop movements, galleon trajectories, and sect signed names with calm, panoramic vision.
“Dao Spirit,” Lin Xiao communicated inwardly. “The poor man ran eighteen hundred li in the dead of winter without a coat to tell us this.”
“Affirmative, Host,” Dao Spirit replied softly. “Subject Lu Feng risked total clan extermination and execution by sect law to deliver this warning. His loyalty vector is calculated at ninety-nine point seven percent.”
Lin Xiao retracted his slime arm. That let the silk map rest on the table. He looked down at the trembling mortal merchant with deep, quiet warmth.
“Ling’er,” Lin Xiao said softly.
“Yes, Master?” Su Ling’er responded instantly.
“Call the kitchen pavilion. Have Auntie Chen prepare a large bowl of hot bone broth with scallions, two steamed vegetable buns. A plate of those honey-glazed roasted sweet potatoes we took out of the oven an hour ago. And fetch a thick woolen blanket.”
Lu Feng looked up, his bloodshot eyes wide with sheer, blank confusion.
“Sect Master... Did you not hear me?” Lu Feng pleaded, his voice cracking. “Thirty thousand swords! Flying war galleons! They’re coming to kill you! Why are you ordering sweet potatoes?!”
Lin Xiao gently hopped off his cushion, landing on the table with a soft, rubbery gloop. He rolled over to Lu Feng’s side. He extended a warm, semi-clear blue arm that patted the scared merchant gently on his trembling shoulder.
“I heard you, Patriarch Lu,” Lin Xiao said. His voice as were calm and steady as a mountain spring that had flowed for ten thousand years. “Every single word. But nobody can think clearly when their stomach is empty and their boots are soaked in freezing mud. You did a brave, wonderful thing coming here to warn us. You’re our friend, and you’re safe here.”
Lin Xiao smiled, his semi-clear gaze streaming an unmoving, calm confidence.
“Now drink your tea, Patriarch Lu. As for thirty thousand noisy guests marching through our front gate... Well, we have plenty of lawn for everyone.”