Gen moved out of the mountain range under a low, bruised sky. He wore a hooded robe of coarse, undyed wool, the deep cowl pulled forward to shadow his face. Very few people knew his face, but the world now knew his name, and a price was attached to it. Better safe than sorry.
Two days of travel brought him to the edge of a town. He paused on a rise, looking down. It was not small. Smoke rose from hundreds of chimneys, weaving into the perpetual winter haze. The air here held a different quality—not the killing, silent cold of the high peaks, but a damp, pervasive chill that seeped into the bones and made shoulders hunch. People moved through the slush-covered streets in heavy, patched coats, their breath pluming. Their movements were not the serene pace of the mountain villagers; there was a tension here, a watchful hurry.
Gen descended and merged with the flow. He kept his head down, his senses open. The murmur of the crowd was a tapestry of worry bartered in low tones, of goods exchanged with swift, nervous hands.
Then a voice, young and raw as a fresh scrape, cut through the din near a frozen public fountain.
"They will turn all of us into slaves and servants! Is that what we want? We are proud cultivators! Hey, sir! Aren't you going to do something? They are turning us into servants!"
Gen slowed. The speaker was a boy of maybe fifteen. His face had the hardened, early definition of someone who'd taken a few beatings, but his eyes burned with an undimmed fire. He stood on the fountain's stone rim, scrubbing at the ice with his boot heel, shouting his indictment at anyone who would listen.
Gen turned to him. "Why are you shouting?"
The boy's gaze snapped to Gen. The hood, the set of the shoulders, the way he stood—utterly still amid the flowing crowd. The boy couldn't articulate it, but something in his gut, honed by street-smarts, *itched*. This was no ordinary traveler. He hopped down.
"Esteemed sir, you must do something for our town. They are openly collecting people now."
Gen frowned slightly. "What do you mean, 'openly collecting people'?"
A passerby, an older man with a wearied face, hissed without stopping. "Don't listen to this little fool. Better mind your own business."
The contradiction deepened Gen's confusion. He looked at the boy's desperate, hopeful face. "Come with me," he said.
They found a simple inn, its common room hazy with steam and the smell of cheap grain liquor. They took a corner table. Gen held a cup of hot, bitter brew, waiting for it to cool, his hood still up. The boy was already stirring his own with a grimy finger, then testing the temperature by dipping the same finger in and sucking it. The other patrons glanced over, took in the silent, hooded figure beside the urchin, and quickly looked away. They felt it—not an aura, not a flare of Qi, but the unshakeable *solidity* of presence that clung to the truly strong. This was not a man to interrupt.
"Slow down," Gen said, his voice low. "You will burn yourself."
"I'm used to it," the boy said, shrugging. He swallowed a gulp, winced, then leaned conspiratorially across the rough wood. "The Bliss Palace."
The name made Gen pause, his cup halfway to his lips. He placed it back on the table. "What do you mean, the Bliss Palace? What has it done?"
"They've gotten more brazen these past months. They're openly 'recruiting.'" The boy spat the word. "I call it plain-day kidnapping. They take young cultivators, male and female, and go with them."
Gen's frown deepened. The memory was sharp and ugly—the Kirin, Madame Su's pale, poisoned face. His father had broken the Bliss Palace once. Now, in the shadow of the Damocles and his father's fall, the rot had regrown, bolder than ever. A hot surge of anger tightened his fist on the table.
Then the thought hit him, cold and sobering.
It wasn't surprising. The Damocles, the revolutionary unrest, the rise of the Bliss Palace—they were all symptoms. Even if he cleansed this town, it would not cure the disease. Only destroying the Damocles could bring true stability. But the fear was a cold stone in his gut: what if he saved the world from the sky, only for it to collapse from the sickness within?
The boy tapped the table, peering into the shadow of Gen's hood. "Sir? Are you here? We need to do something."
"I cannot help you," Gen said, the words tasting of ash. "I am sorry."
Finding his friends was critical. The unresolved ache in his heart was a blockage in his cultivation, a weight slowing his progress on the Wheels. He could not afford another delay.
"How can you be so cruel? You have to do something!" The boy slapped the table, his anger flaring.
Gen did not move. It wasn't that the winter had made him emotionless. It was that he was starting, painfully, to see the vast, interconnected machinery of the world's suffering. He saw the immense, futile effort of trying to fix one broken gear while the great engine itself was tearing apart.
He stood up. "Follow me."
He paid for a room overlooking the town's central plaza. It was sparse but spacious, the window offering a panoramic view of the slushy square. The boy bounced around, touching everything, finally claiming the bed as his own.
"You look so strong," the boy said, kicking his legs. "Where are you from? Definitely not the Peak North. We rarely get visitors. Must be from inland, the Four Kingdoms."
Gen kept his eyes on the plaza. "Is the Peak North far from the Four Kingdoms?"
The boy nodded vigorously. "Very, very far. If you're not a cultivator who can fly, it can take almost three months to get there."
*Three months.* Gen's mind worked. Kai and his hunters had moved incredibly fast to find him. That speed meant Lorel and the others had likely had enough time to vanish, to find secure hiding places. Had they found the Lost Triangle Mountain? He had no idea.
He turned from the window. "Have you heard of the Lost Triangle Mountain?"
The boy nodded again. "That children's tale? Who doesn't know about the Lost Triangle? She's a cultivator who named an entire mountain after herself. Legends say she has never lost a single fight on that mountain. It's probably the safest place in the world right now."
"And how do we get there?"
The boy shrugged. "No idea. But there's this guy in town we call Birdie. He knows a ton of things. But I don't like him."
A faint smile touched Gen's lips. "What kind of stupid name is 'Birdie'?" His eyes never left the plaza.
Then, movement. The boy scrambled off the bed and joined him, pointing. "See?"
From the northern avenue, a procession entered the square. Cultivators dressed in identical robes of violent, eye-hurting black moved with synchronized steps. Among them, dragged and herded, was a group of struggling, screaming figures—young men and women snatched from the side streets and doorways. The leader was a shorter man with a wide, smiling face and one milky, blind eye. He beamed at his captives.
"You should all be happy!" his voice carried, shrill and false. "You are going to join the Bliss Palace! You will become very strong! You will roam the world and get whatever you want!"
A young man in the captive group spat at the ground. "Stop telling lies! We know we'll be drained to death, and the luckiest used as toys!"
The smiling man's finger rose. A beam of greyish light, thin and precise, shot out. It pierced the young man's forehead with a soft *puff*. He dropped, his objection eternally silenced. The smile never left the leader's face. "Any other objections?"
The remaining captives shuddered into a terrified, silent huddle.
The leader turned, raising his voice to the watching, fearful town. "The Bliss Palace thanks the town of Hu for its cooperation! We shall return in two days to collect the last ones. You would do well to stay quiet, and not cause trouble… or try to flee." He turned, and his black-robed cadre began marching their human tribute out of the square.
From his vantage point, Gen saw and heard everything with perfect clarity. His muscles were coiled wire, but he did not move. He had no intention of moving.
The boy beside him shook his head, his earlier fire guttering into disappointment. "You're exactly like them. If only the Immortal Jiang was still alive… then things like this would never happen."
Gen's fist bailed so tight the wood of the windowsill groaned. Just before the boy could storm out in disgust, Gen asked one last question, his voice flat.
"If you can help me contact Birdie, and get the Lost Triangle's location… I might be able to do something. Though it would not change much."
Apathy and loneliness were creeping into his veins, a poison his conscious mind had yet to name.
The boy's smile returned, bright and desperate. "Consider it done, then! Let's start now! Let's go and save them!" He pulled towards the door.
Gen shook his head, his gaze still locked on the empty, stained plaza. "First, we observe. I need more information. Their numbers, their strength. I cannot walk into a trap."
He was alone now. He had no one to watch his back. He had a king's bounty on his head. Every move had to be measured, every risk calculated.
The boy's smile faltered. "With your strength, I don't understand why you're so scared. But… fine. I will help. Just wait here. I'll be back in a few days." He slipped out, leaving Gen in the silent room.
Gen nodded to the empty air. He returned his attention to the plaza, his eyes scanning every shadow, every alley mouth.
In his mind, the decision was made. It wouldn't solve the world's sickness, but he would not let this particular evil fester in Hu. He thought of Chu, that day he and Lorel had done the exact same thing—freed a people from revolutionaries. It was a pattern, recurring all over the collapsing world.
But that time, he had been with *her*.
His eyes lifted from the grim town, past the rooftops, searching the twilight sky. He could not see the Damocles' light from here, but he could feel their presence, a constant pressure on his soul. Only now, in the deep quiet of his isolation, did he realize just how much she had meant to him. Her presence hadn't just been companionship; it had been a compass, a warmth that kept the creeping cold of despair—and this new, chilling apathy—at bay.