Wei Xiao crept forward on all fours, the damp moss muffling his steps. His bare chest rose and fell in shallow bursts; the torn remnants of his tunic had long since been discarded after the fall, leaving pale skin streaked with dirt and dried blood.
His white hair, matted and unkempt, hung over sharp features that spoke of hardship rather than noble blood high cheekbones hollowed by weeks of running, eyes dark and calculating beneath straight brows.
No shirt, just the rope belt holding his short sword and the jagged dagger now gripped tight in his right hand. The halberd lay back in the bushes; too unwieldy for this silent work.
The sobbing grew louder. A young man, maybe nineteen, huddled behind a jagged outcrop of rock, knees drawn to his chest. His shoulders shook with quiet, broken sounds. Hunger had already carved deep lines into his face.
Wei Xiao's stomach twisted violently, a living thing clawing at his insides. Three days without real food. The Qi from the stew had kept him alive, but it couldn't fill the void.
He felt no pity, only a cold, practical certainty. This was the price of freedom. This was how he would never wear chains again.
He lunged.
The dagger flashed once in the faint purple light. It sank straight into the side of the boy's neck with a wet, meaty sound, just below the jaw. Blood sprayed hot across Wei Xiao's forearm as he twisted the blade, widening the wound.
The boy's eyes bulged in shock; a gurgling cry tried to escape, but only bubbles of blood came out. His hands scrabbled weakly at Wei Xiao's wrist, nails digging uselessly into skin already raw from the fall.
Wei Xiao leaned in close, pinning the struggling body with his weight. "Shh," he whispered, almost gentle. The dagger sawed deeper until the boy went limp, twitching once, twice, then still.
For a long moment, Wei Xiao simply knelt there, breathing hard. The smell of fresh blood mixed with the earthy damp of the pit. His hands didn't shake.
The hunger roared louder now, demanding even.
He dragged the body deeper into the shadows between two boulders, out of immediate sight. Then he did what the void in his belly commanded.
He ate.
He used the dagger to cut strips of flesh from the thigh and shoulder warm, slick muscle that still held faint traces of Qi. The taste was metallic and gamey, but the moment the first piece slid down his throat, something inside him ignited.
The stew's lingering energy flared brighter, merging with whatever essence clung to the dead boy's blood and meat. Strength trickled into his limbs, subtle but real; the cramps in his stomach eased, and the constant fog in his head lifted just enough to think clearly again.
He chewed methodically, swallowing every scrap he could manage without making too much noise. Bones he cracked open with a rock for the marrow. By the time he finished, his chin and chest glistened red, but the hunger had retreated to a manageable growl instead of a scream.
A rustle behind him. Then another.
Wei Xiao stood slowly, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. He turned to face the cavern.
Dozens of eyes stared back from the gloom survivors scattered across the uneven floor, some crouched behind mushrooms, others pressed against walls. Their expressions ranged from horror to stunned disbelief.
One woman covered her mouth, retching quietly. A broad-shouldered man gripped his makeshift club tighter, knuckles white.
Wei Xiao met their gazes without flinching. His voice came out low and steady, carrying just far enough in the echoing space.
"For the whole month we're down here," he said, "y'all will be supplying me food. I don't care who it is. Bring me something every day meat, roots, whatever you find. Or I'll come take it myself. And next time, it won't be from the dead."
He let the words hang. No threats, no shouting. Just simple fact, delivered like a man stating the color of the sky.
Then he turned and walked a short distance to a flat patch of moss. He sat cross-legged, back straight, the bloody dagger resting across his knees. The survivors watched him in silence; no one moved to challenge him yet.
Wei Xiao closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. 'Skin breathing,' he reminded himself. Just like Elder Vane had taught on the grass field above. He imagined his body as an empty vessel, a hollow reed waiting to be filled.
The fire in his gut the one kindled by desperation and now fed by stolen life flickered warmer.
He focused on the air around him, thick with earthy Qi from the volcanic rock and glowing fungi. Instead of lungs, he breathed through his pores; cool tingles prickled across his bare chest and arms, then sank inward like threads of silk being pulled into a loom.
The recent meal amplified it. Each swallow of energy felt richer, heavier, as if the boy's lingering vitality had unlocked something small but vital.
Minutes stretched. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the chill. The warmth in his lower belly grew, coiling tighter, then spreading through his meridians in slow, deliberate pulses. Bruises from the fall faded further; raw fingertips itched as new skin knit together.
When he finally opened his eyes, his vision seemed sharper, the purple glow of the mushrooms more vivid. A quiet satisfaction settled in his chest not triumph, just the steady merit of having taken one more step without bowing.
He rose and began to walk the perimeter of their scattered camp, testing his legs. Several survivors lowered their heads as he passed, murmuring quick agreements or offering scraps they'd already scavenged.
A thin girl with bruised knees pressed a handful of bitter-smelling roots into his palm without meeting his eyes.
Others didn't bow. Wei Xiao caught fragments of whispers from the shadows two men huddled near a cluster of stalagmites, voices tight with resentment. "He's just a kid… we outnumber him…" "Wait for night cycle, then…"
he kept walking until he spotted a lone figure crouched by a trickle of water seeping from the wall. The man was older, maybe thirty, with a scruffy beard and nervous hands sorting through a small pile of mushroom caps.
Nothing special about him just another desperate soul trying to survive.
As Wei Xiao approached, the man turned. Their eyes met. The older survivor flinched hard, dropping a mushroom; his shoulders hunched like he expected a blow.
Wei Xiao said nothing. He simply stepped closer, dagger still in hand, and drove the blade once into the man's side quick, efficient, just under the ribs.
The man gasped, eyes widening in betrayal and pain. He crumpled, clutching the wound.
Wei Xiao crouched beside him, voice calm.
"You were planning something. I could see it in your face earlier. Better this way."
He didn't eat immediately. Not yet. But as the man's breathing slowed to nothing, Wei Xiao felt that same spark again stronger this time. The Qi in the air seemed to respond, rushing toward him more eagerly, as if the act of claiming life had sharpened his hunger into a finer tool.
Power trickled through his veins, subtle but undeniable. His muscles felt denser, his thoughts clearer.
He wiped the dagger on the dead man's sleeve and stood, bare chest still streaked with fresh red. The pit's silence pressed in heavier now, broken only by distant, wary shuffling.
Word would spread. Some would obey. Others would plot harder.