The road stretched long and winding beneath the afternoon sun, its warmth pressing against their backs. The weight of their earlier conversation still lingered, though none of them spoke of it now. Zhen Wei had fallen into an easy rhythm, his horse’s reins held loosely in one hand as he hummed a cheerful tune—entirely out of place considering their destination.

  "You know, if we keep this pace, we might actually reach Willow Rest before nightfall," he said, his tone light. "A miracle, considering Mo Chen’s usual habit of riding in brooding silence."

  Mo Chen didn’t rise to the bait, his expression as distant as ever. Xu Lian, riding between them, shot Zhen Wei a sidelong glance.

  "You act as if silence is unnatural," she remarked.

  "No, no. Just his silence," Zhen Wei replied, grinning. "Your silence is charming, mine is contemplative, but his? His is the sound of impending doom."

  Mo Chen exhaled sharply through his nose, but Xu Lian thought—just for a second—his lips twitched.

  They continued on, the landscape shifting subtly as they pressed forward.

  Then, it happened.

  A sudden crack echoed through the forest, sharp and violent, the sound of branches snapping like brittle bones.

  The undergrowth exploded.

  A hulking mass of fur and muscle tore through the dense thicket, sending splintered bark and crushed leaves flying in all directions. The very earth seemed to tremble beneath the beast’s weight as it crashed onto the road, its bulk shuddering with each ragged breath.

  The smell hit them first, thick and cloying, wrong. The rank stench of rot, of festering wounds and something far worse.

  The boar stood there, grotesque, menacing. Its hide was matted with filth and open sores, raw patches of flesh peeling like spoiled fruit. Drool, thick and foamy, dripped from its gaping maw, staining the dirt below in sluggish, bubbling globs.

  Its tusks, once curved and mighty, were jagged stumps, fractured and splintered as if it had rammed them against stone until they shattered.

  And then there were its eyes.

  The whites, veined with angry red, were nearly swallowed by the swollen crust of dried pus clinging to its sockets. Yet, even through the sickness, the beast’s gaze was filled with something beyond mere madness.

  It was watching them.

  Not like an animal. Not like prey stalking its next meal.

  But like something that knew.

  The moment stretched, thick and taut as a drawn bowstring. The air around them grew heavy, thick with the rancid stench of decay, the unnatural sickness rolling off the beast like heat from sunbaked stone.

  The boar’s chest heaved, its breath coming in wheezing, guttural gasps. It pawed at the earth, splitting the dirt with its cracked hooves, foam-flecked drool dripping from its gaping maw. The sickly thing should have been on the brink of death, yet it stood, trembling with something beyond mere survival.

  It was wrong.

  Zhen Wei’s fingers twitched against the reins as his chi rippled outward, an invisible wave of energy meant to calm the panicked horses. The effect was immediate. Though their ears flicked back, their frantic snorts quieted, their stamping hooves settling.

  But the boar did not still.

  If anything, it reacted.

  A violent shudder racked its bloated body, and a deep, gurgling noise bubbled up from its throat. It threw its head back and screamed, a sound not meant for the throat of any natural beast. The noise was wrong, unnatural, a blend of wet snarls and something almost…human.

  Xu Lian’s breath stilled in her throat.

  Then Mo Chen moved.

  One heartbeat, he was on horseback, still and composed, the very image of measured control.

  The next, he was airborne, his dark indigo robes fanning out behind him as his sword left its sheath with a whisper of steel. The air warped and shimmered around him as his chi surged, the sheer weight of it pressing against Xu Lian’s skin like the pressure before a storm.

  He was fast.

  Too fast.

  He bore down on the beast with all the effortless precision of a hawk descending upon prey. The sharp glint of his blade caught the afternoon light, turning it into a silver arc of death.

  Xu Lian couldn’t breathe.

  Her body trembled, not from fear alone, but from something deeper, something she didn’t understand.

  She had seen fighters before. She had seen men brawl in alleyways, seen cultivators wield their blades with honed skill. But this—

  This was something else.

  Mo Chen was lethal. A force unto himself.

  The sight of him descending upon the monstrous boar was something both terrifying and awe-inspiring.

  And yet—

  Her fingers fumbled as she reached for her saddlebag, the straps stubborn beneath her shaking grip. The peachwood sword—where was it? She needed it now.

  The boar moved.

  Not to flee. Not to defend.

  It welcomed the attack.

  Its body convulsed, and with a horrifying lurch, it surged forward to meet Mo Chen’s blade, its bloodshot eyes locking onto him with something Xu Lian could only describe as recognition.

  And then—

  The air shattered.

  The collision sent a shockwave through the clearing, dust and dead leaves spiraling into the air.

  Mo Chen’s blade met flesh, carving a clean, merciless arc—but instead of falling, the boar lurched into the strike, forcing itself forward despite the deep wound splitting its shoulder.

  A normal beast would have staggered, bled out, crumpled into the dirt.

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  This one screamed—a ragged, distorted wail, somewhere between an animal’s cry and a human’s broken gasp.

  Mo Chen landed lightly, pivoting in an instant, his expression set in grim precision. His first strike had been a killing blow. It should have been over.

  And yet—

  The boar stood, trembling, its ruined flesh knitting itself back together in jagged, grotesque shudders.

  Zhen Wei let out a low whistle, rolling his shoulders as he loosened the grip on his fan. “I’m starting to think it doesn’t want to die. Which is inconvenient, considering we very much want it to.”

  The boar turned its milky, bloodshot gaze onto Mo Chen, foam-flecked jaws snapping. Then it charged.

  Mo Chen moved faster.

  A flicker of motion, then he was no longer where he had been—a streak of indigo and silver flashing through the air.

  The boar’s momentum carried it forward into nothing. Mo Chen was already at its side, his sword lashing out in a precise, slicing cut—this time at the base of its thick, gnarled neck.

  Steel bit deep, but the boar did not slow.

  It should have been dead twice over.

  Zhen Wei clicked his tongue. “Fine, fine. If you won’t stay down for him, how about me?”

  The fan in his hand flicked open, glowing faintly with golden chi.

  With an almost lazy flick of his wrist, he sent a blast of force barreling into the boar’s side. The impact was like a battering ram—the beast hurtled sideways, crashing through the underbrush, snapping branches like twigs before it finally skidded to a stop.

  For a long moment, the only sound was ragged, gurgling breath. The boar lay still, its grotesque wounds oozing black ichor.

  Then, it twitched.

  Again.

  And again.

  Each shudder a violent, jerking motion, like a puppet with half-cut strings struggling to rise despite its broken form.

  Xu Lian’s breath caught in her throat.

  She tore at her saddlebag, hands fumbling in her rush to retrieve the peachwood sword and sigil she knew she had. The straps resisted, stubborn beneath her trembling fingers.

  By the time she finally yanked them free, Mo Chen had already turned to her, his voice sharp.

  “Too slow. Unprepared.” His dark eyes flickered to the wheezing, still-moving corpse on the ground. “Hesitation could kill you.”

  Xu Lian scowled, ignoring the heat that burned in her cheeks.

  Zhen Wei, ever the peacemaker, only chuckled as he folded his fan with a snap. “Better late than never, little one.” He gestured at the still-twitching corpse. “Go on, let’s see if you can actually finish the job.”

  Xu Lian exhaled, steadying herself. The peachwood sword felt awkward in her grip, unfamiliar but not entirely foreign.

  She took a step forward, the sigil in her other hand pulsing faintly with energy.

  Whatever this thing was—it wasn’t just a beast.

  And she was going to find out why.

  Xu Lian took another step forward, the peachwood sword cool in her grasp, the sigil pulsing faintly in her other hand.

  The air hung thick with rot, the still-twitching corpse a grotesque, convulsing mass.

  Her fingers trembled, but she did not hesitate this time.

  She lowered the sigil.

  The moment it came within inches of the boar’s mottled, festering hide, the reaction was instant.

  A pulse.

  Not just of light—but of something ancient, something that sent a ripple of energy through the air.

  The sigil’s delicate golden etchings flared, searing bright as if it had been ignited from within. The glow was pure, untainted chi—holy energy.

  Then—

  The boar screamed.

  Not the wounded, gurgling wheeze it had made before.

  This was something else.

  It twisted, its body thrashing violently, limbs jerking at unnatural angles as if something inside it was trying to tear free.

  The black ichor seeping from its wounds—that thick, unnatural sludge—began to boil.

  Zhen Wei’s expression darkened, his usual air of amusement vanishing as he took a step closer, his fan hanging loose in his grip. “Hah… Well. That’s not normal.”

  The boar’s form convulsed, and from the deepest recesses of its throat came a sound—

  A whisper.

  Xu Lian’s breath hitched.

  She wasn’t imagining it. There were words in that awful, choking scream—but not in any language she understood.

  Mo Chen’s grip on his sword tightened, his dark gaze locked onto the writhing beast. He said nothing, but his posture had shifted—coiled, ready.

  Then, in a final, horrific shudder, the boar’s body collapsed inward, as if some unseen force had devoured it from the inside.

  What was left was a twisted, blackened husk—its flesh shrunken and dry, the once-wet ichor reduced to curling, ashen streaks.

  Silence.

  The sigil still being held in Xu Lian’s hand flared one last time, its golden characters burning white-hot—then, with a final flicker, it crumbled into fine ash, scattering into the wind as the corruption was driven out.

  She swallowed hard, her mouth dry as dust.

  “…That wasn’t a normal demonic beast.”

  Zhen Wei exhaled, his fingers tapping absently against his folded fan.

  "No. No, it was not."

  He smiled—just a little—but it was not reassuring.

  "And the fun part? Even I don’t know what the hell that was."

  Mo Chen’s eyes flicked toward him, unreadable.

  Xu Lian turned her gaze back to the charred remnants of the boar, her heart pounding.

  If even Zhen Wei—who never took anything seriously—was uncertain about this corruption, then something was very, very wrong.

  The husk of the boar lay still, a blackened, twisted ruin.

  What remained of its once-matted hide was now dry and brittle, cracked open like old parchment, its insides reduced to ash-veined hollows where flesh should have been. The stench of rot and charred corruption lingered, even as the wind carried the last traces of smoke away.

  Mo Chen stood over it, the tip of his sword pressed lightly against the ground, his gaze sharp and unreadable.

  Zhen Wei exhaled slowly, snapping his fan open as if the motion alone could push away the stink of death. “I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my time, but this?” He tapped the corpse lightly with the end of his fan. “This is new.”

  Mo Chen crouched, gloved fingers brushing over the burned remnants of the ichor, watching how the residue curled and shriveled under his touch.

  “It resisted death,” he said at last, his voice quiet but firm.

  Zhen Wei hummed. “And it knew it was dying. That’s the part I don’t like.”

  Xu Lian swallowed, still gripping the peachwood sword at her side. “Beasts don’t behave like that,” she murmured.

  Mo Chen nodded. “No. They don’t.”

  His gaze flickered toward the ground where the boar had made its last stand. The dirt was streaked with black stains, but as the breeze stirred the dust, those stains did not fade like blood should have. Instead, they sank deeper, leaving something almost… burned into the earth.

  A mark.

  Zhen Wei’s fingers tapped against his fan again, a nervous rhythm. “Tell me, old friend,” he said lightly, but his tone lacked its usual teasing edge. “What does this remind you of?”

  Mo Chen didn’t answer.

  Because he knew.

  Somewhere, deep in the corners of his mind—buried beneath time, loss, and memories he dared not touch—he knew.

  And it made him uneasy.

  The silence was thick, weighted with unsaid words.

  Then—

  A rustling from the road. The sound of hurried footsteps, quickened breath.

  Xu Lian turned first. Two figures emerged from the trees, their clothes dusted with travel, their faces drawn and tense. They had seen the fight.

  The younger of the two, a man barely past twenty, stopped short, his eyes flicking toward the remains of the boar with a look of pure dread.

  The older woman beside him, her hair streaked with gray, clutched a bundle of cloth to her chest. Her fingers trembled.

  "It’s the same," she whispered.

  Mo Chen’s eyes narrowed. “You recognize this?”

  The younger man hesitated. Then, in a tight, almost choked voice, he said, “We’ve seen this sickness before. It—it looks just like the corpses back home.”

  Xu Lian’s stomach turned. “Back home?”

  The woman exhaled sharply, gathering herself, as if she could steady her shaking hands through sheer will alone.

  "We’re from a village south of here. Near Willow’s Rest."

  Mo Chen and Zhen Wei exchanged a glance.

  "We left because of the plague," the man continued. "The Black Blister Plague. We—" he swallowed, as if the words alone left a bitter taste in his mouth. "We saw what it did to our neighbors. To our families."

  He gestured toward the withered husk of the boar, his voice cracking.

  “And that—whatever that is—it looks just like them.”