Jin did not reach for his weapon.
That was the first thing the soldier noticed.
The man hesitated, sword half-raised, eyes narrowing as if the lack of resistance confused him more than defiance ever could.
"Stand," the soldier ordered.
Jin obeyed slowly, pushing himself upright. Pain flared along his side where stone had bitten deep, but he kept his face still. Blood tasted coppery on his tongue.
Another soldier stepped into view, then another. Three in total. Not a full squad.
They had chased too hard.
Good.
"You run well for a bandit," the first soldier said.
Jin met his gaze. "You run poorly for a hunter."
The soldier smiled thinly. "You're bold."
"I'm tired."
That, at least, was honest.
They bound his hands—not roughly, but firmly. Professional. Jin noted everything. The way they kept distance. The way their eyes never stopped moving.
One of them whistled softly. "Is this the one?"
"The road walker," another replied. "The one they warned us about."
Jin felt the name settle over him like frost.
Names again.
They marched him east, not toward Lowpine, but away from it. Jin recognized the tactic instantly.
Disorientation.
Isolation.
They walked for hours. Jin stumbled once; the soldier behind him caught his arm before he fell. Not kindness. Efficiency.
As dusk bled into the sky, they reached a temporary camp. Four tents. One fire. Too small to be permanent. Too organized to be careless.
They pushed Jin to his knees near the fire.
A man stepped forward.
He wore county colors—but differently. Cleaner. His armor was worn by habit, not neglect. His eyes were sharp in a way that had nothing to do with cruelty.
"Jin Karel," the man said.
Jin looked up slowly.
"Yes."
No denial.
No surprise.
The man studied him for a long moment. "You don't look like the stories."
Jin shrugged as much as the bindings allowed. "Stories need shape."
"And men like you provide it."
The man crouched. "I am Captain Rowen."
Jin nodded once. "Then you know why I'm here."
"Yes," Rowen said. "And why you shouldn't be."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Rowen said, "You've caused inconvenience."
Jin smiled faintly. "That's generous."
Rowen's expression didn't change. "You interfere with patrols. You mislead scouts. You embolden resistance."
"I feed my family."
Rowen tilted his head. "So do I."
That landed harder than Jin expected.
They questioned him until night deepened.
Not harshly.
Not loudly.
They asked about names. Routes. Other men.
Jin gave them nothing they didn't already know—or nothing that mattered.
Finally, Rowen stood.
"You're not what I expected," he said.
Jin looked up. "Neither are you."
Rowen paused. "Do you know why we haven't killed you?"
Jin met his gaze steadily. "Because you want something."
Rowen smiled slightly. "Because killing you would make you simple."
"And keeping me alive makes me useful."
"Yes."
Jin considered that.
"You want me to choose," Jin said.
Rowen nodded. "I want you to stop."
"That's not a choice."
Rowen's smile faded. "It is when the alternative is pain."
They locked Jin in a small supply tent overnight.
No guards inside.
Two outside.
Rowen trusted fear more than force.
Jin lay awake, staring at the canvas ceiling, every breath a reminder of where he was—and what waited if he failed.
He thought of Mira.
Of Doyan's eyes.
Of his daughter's quiet laughter.
He thought of Hess.
And wondered if the split had worked.
Near dawn, footsteps approached.
Rowen entered alone.
"You'll be released," he said.
Jin sat up slowly. "That's unexpected."
Rowen knelt, cutting the bindings. "You'll walk west. You won't be followed."
"And Lowpine?"
Rowen hesitated—just a fraction. "We'll continue our work."
Jin stood, wrists burning.
"You'll mark it," Jin said.
"Yes."
"You'll name it."
"Yes."
"And when people resist?"
Rowen met his eyes. "We'll correct them."
Jin felt something inside him harden—not into anger, but into clarity.
"You're not ending banditry," Jin said. "You're creating it."
Rowen rose. "History will decide that."
"History is written by men who don't walk the road," Jin replied.
Rowen opened the tent flap. "Go."
Jin walked.
West.
Alone.
The forest swallowed him quickly, but the weight did not lift.
By midday, he collapsed near a stream, exhaustion finally claiming its due. He drank, washed blood from his side, and bound the wound as best he could.
Then he sat there.
And thought.
They hadn't killed him.
They hadn't broken him.
They had released him.
Because they expected him to return.
Expected him to bend.
That was the mistake.
He found Hess at dusk.
Not by chance.
By planning.
Hess stepped from the trees, sword lowered but ready.
"You're alive," Hess said.
"Barely."
They clasped forearms.
"They let you go," Hess said.
"Yes."
"That's bad."
"Yes."
Hess studied his face. "You've decided something."
Jin nodded.
"They think the road belongs to them," Jin said. "That naming it gives them control."
"And?"
"And I'm done letting the road decide who I am."
Hess's eyes sharpened. "What are you saying?"
Jin looked east, where Lowpine waited under borrowed authority.
"I'm not running anymore," he said.
Silence.
Then Hess smiled—grim, proud, and afraid.
"Then neither am I."
That night, Jin dreamed again.
But this time, the road did not stretch endlessly.
This time, it ended.
Not in blood.
But in choice.
And when he woke, pain still burned in his side—but purpose burned brighter.