Chapter 43 · Night of Vigil

  The fire sank to embers, leaving only dark.

  YiChen wrapped the deer haunch in vine bark, bound it with sinew, dug a pit, and buried it beneath stone.

  Ryan chewed his last bite, brow lifted.

  “You hiding dinner for later?”

  YiChen brushed dirt from his palms.

  “On the road, you won’t always get a clean kill. If food runs short—dig it up.”

  No one laughed.

  No one objected.

  ?

  As night deepened, Spirit Energy thickened, cloaking the camp like a silver veil.

  “Meditate.” YiChen sat cross-legged, voice steady.

  “Now—feel your Spirit Force.”

  The seven obeyed.

  “Combat is instinct. Spirit Force is the same.

  Slow your breath. Sink your mind. Imagine a river.

  From your dantian—up the spine—past the crown—then back to the core.”

  His palm opened. A silver current shimmered, lightning beneath the skin.

  “This is Small Circulation. A loop without end.”

  At first—nothing. Then—

  Logan’s fingertips curled with red flame.

  Han Yue’s palm misted pale-white.

  David’s arm glowed earthy-brown.

  Xu Wei’s breath bled cyan threads.

  Jack’s skin rippled with translucent waves.

  Ryan’s aura sparked like embers.

  Max’s was quietest—thin frost sheathing his form.

  YiChen swept them with his gaze.

  “Good. Remember this. Spirit Force is your weapon.”

  In the clearing, eight faint glows shimmered like fallen stars.

  High in the trees, the violet Light Beast appeared once more—silent, watching.

  ?

  By ten, the moon silvered the mist.

  Their legs were numb, but inside—Spirit Force coursed vivid, hot as fire in blood.

  YiChen rose. His voice cut the air.

  “Eight people. Eight hours. One hour each.

  First, Max. Second, David. Third, Ryan. Fourth, Xu Wei.

  Fifth, Jack. Sixth, Logan. Seventh, Han Yue.”

  He paused. “Eighth… me.”

  Han Yue frowned. “You shouldn’t be last.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  YiChen slid the axe to his waist.

  “When you wake, I’ll still be here.”

  His gaze fixed on the black forest.

  “Now—rules.”

  His tone was cold iron.

  “Inside the barrier. Not one step out. Those runes are your shield.

  No firelight. No noise. No smoke. Fiends sense light and sound sharper than wolves scent blood.

  Smell rot? Hold your breath. Write the alarm.” He tapped the folding slate.

  “Unless a Fiend bites your eyelid off—don’t shout. Don’t wake the others.”

  Silence. Only wind whispering through the canopy.

  One by one, they slipped to posts or into tents.

  And each knew—

  YiChen would always take the last watch.

  The blackest watch.

  The hour when night is deepest.

  The hour disaster comes.

  Chapter 44 · He Said It’s Like Camping

  The night deepened.

  Wind sifted through the forest, leaves whispering like unseen voices.

  Inside the tent, silence pressed too heavy. YiChen sat cross-legged on the mat, jacket still on, weapons untouched.

  He lowered his gaze to his palm—

  “Brother, look!”

  Memory bled in: ChengYu tugging his hand, dragging him through the Church of Radiant Grace’s grand tent.

  “This is too comfortable! We used to sleep on vine hammocks—now we’ve got tents!”

  The voice was still there—bright, alive, brimming with boyish wonder.

  He should have slept.

  But every time his eyes closed, another image struck—

  ChengYu sprawled across a cot, grinning:

  “it just feels like those camping trips back at school… This bed’s so soft!”

  YiChen’s eyes snapped open.

  No tears. No trembling.

  Only a wound bound tight by invisible thread—pulled sharper, tighter—until even breathing hurt.

  Outside, footsteps of the night watch passed, careful, as if afraid to disturb something fragile.

  YiChen’s hand curled. Nails bit into flesh.

  At last, he drew a long breath, forced the turbulence down, smothered the restless Spirit Force flickering in his veins.

  He closed his eyes, sank into the Taiwei Guiyuan Art.

  Mind still. Breath sinking to the dantian.

  Spirit Energy trickled through his meridians, gathering at the Spirit Wheel.

  Through a seam in the tent, starlight fell—drawn, pulled into him. Silver radiance wrapped his frame, then sank into bone and blood.

  By day—sunlight.

  By night—starlight.

  Each circulation hardened him a fraction more.

  The Spirit Wheel turned. All phenomena returned to origin.

  When he opened his eyes, starlight flickered faintly within.

  Only by growing stronger… could he save ChengYu.

  And he would.

  ?

  Two a.m.

  The forest was ink-dark. The barrier shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat—bright, dim, bright again.

  Xu Wei crouched by a tent, rapped twice.

  “Jack. Your turn.”

  No answer. He lowered his voice.

  “Two sharp.”

  Rustle. Zipper rasped open. Jack sat up, hair tousled, eyes heavy.

  “…Now?” His voice was hoarse.

  Xu Wei offered a hand. Jack leaned on it, sluggish, fumbling at his boots.

  “Dreamed we were in City Hall,” Jack muttered. “Logan flipped the table.”

  Xu Wei raised a brow.

  “Could’ve been real.”

  Neither laughed. A glance passed between them—wry, tired.

  Jack sighed, slung his knife pouch and flask, and moved toward the barrier.

  Xu Wei watched him vanish into pale glow, then ducked back into his tent.

  The wind stroked the forest leaves—cold as a blade, cutting a seam through the night.

  ?

  Inside his tent, YiChen faltered.

  Not breath—

  sleep.

  Bones heavy as stone, consciousness flickering like a candle in wind. He tried to steady, tried to turn the Spirit Wheel—

  but Spirit Force scattered, slipping from his grasp.

  Half-dream. ChengYu’s voice whispered:

  “Brother, can I sleep in your bed?”

  Then—steady breaths, faint as memory. A boy curled beside him, already asleep.

  YiChen’s fingers twitched, reaching—then slackened.

  He lay back. Closed his eyes.

  Spirit Force drifted, standing guard within—

  while darkness surged like tidewater, swallowing everything.

  In dreams—

  nothing.

  Only silence.

  Only black.