The beasts did not strike immediately.
That was what unsettled everyone most.
For three days after the refugee corridors were secured, the forest remained unnervingly quiet. Scouts reported movement, yes—but no attacks. No probing. No harassment.
Just repositioning.
"They're circling," Shen Yue said, studying the latest reports. "Like predators waiting for exhaustion."
Mo Yun nodded. "Or like soldiers waiting for orders."
The word soldiers lingered uncomfortably.
Li Chen listened without speaking, eyes half-lidded. His senses brushed the edge of the forest, feeling something wrong—not aggressive, but deliberate. The land itself felt… disciplined.
They're reorganizing command, he thought. After losing Stone Spine, they don't need to rush.
The retaliation, when it came, did not come as a wave.
It came as a knife.
The first village to fall was not near the front lines.
It was behind them.
A supply village—one that had already been evacuated of most civilians—was struck at dawn. Beasts emerged from underground burrows, slaughtered the remaining guards, destroyed food stores, and withdrew within minutes.
No pursuit.
No lingering.
Just devastation.
"They didn't even try to take territory," a scout reported, voice tight. "They burned the granaries and left."
Mo Yun's expression darkened. "They're cutting our legs out from under us."
Before orders could be adjusted, the second strike hit.
Then the third.
Always precise. Always clean.
Medical depots. Relay points. Temporary formation hubs.
Each loss was survivable on its own.
Together, they were suffocating.
Fatigue set in.
Disciples who had survived the corridor defense now found themselves fighting hunger, lack of medicine, and constant redeployment. Tempers frayed. Mistakes crept in.
A formation collapsed during a routine patrol—not from attack, but from misaligned qi due to exhaustion. Two disciples were injured before anyone realized what was happening.
That night, arguments erupted in camp.
"We should push forward and force a decisive battle!" one disciple snapped. "This slow bleeding will kill us anyway!"
"And give them what they want?" another shot back. "They choose when to fight—not us!"
Li Chen passed by silently, hearing it all.
Classic counteroffensive doctrine, he thought grimly. Punish mercy. Reward overextension.
The real blow came on the fifth night.
A beast assault struck a refugee convoy—not to annihilate it, but to scatter it.
Screams echoed through the darkness as beasts targeted horses, carts, and escorts with ruthless efficiency. The refugees panicked, fleeing into the forest in all directions.
"Containment failure!" Shen Yue shouted, hands blazing as she erected barriers. "They're trying to turn civilians into liabilities!"
Mo Yun issued orders rapidly, voice hoarse. Teams split to recover the scattered groups, fighting through terrain that favored the beasts completely.
Li Chen moved like a shadow, intercepting lethal strikes that would have broken the convoy's spine. Still restrained. Still unseen by most.
But even he could not be everywhere.
By dawn, the convoy was recovered.
The cost was not catastrophic.
It was worse.
It was demoralizing.
"They're not trying to win quickly," Shen Yue said later, sitting heavily on a fallen log. "They're teaching us that every good deed has a price."
Mo Yun stared at the horizon. "They want us to regret the corridors."
Li Chen finally spoke. "No. They want you to associate compassion with loss."
Both turned to him.
"Eventually," Li Chen continued, "someone will hesitate to protect civilians next time. That hesitation is the real objective."
Silence followed.
That was when a scout arrived—pale, shaking.
"Commander… we found something."
They followed him to the forest edge.
There, nailed to a tree with blackened spikes, was a broken formation plate.
One they recognized.
Stone Spine's crest—defaced.
Below it, carved deeply into the bark with claw and blade alike, was a symbol.
Not beast-made.
Cultivator-made.
Li Chen's pupils narrowed.
"That's not a threat," he said quietly.
Mo Yun swallowed. "Then what is it?"
Li Chen's voice was cold.
"A receipt."
Far above, beyond the lower realm's veil, a presence observed calmly.
"They chose mercy," the voice said. "So we teach them endurance."
Another presence chuckled. "And the anomaly?"
A pause.
"He's adapting," the first replied. "Good. That means the next lesson can hurt more."
That night, Li Chen did not meditate.
He sharpened his sword.
Not because he planned to fight recklessly—
—but because he finally accepted something he had avoided since the beginning.
The enemy was no longer asking questions.
They were writing terms.
And retaliation, once it began, did not stop politely.