CHAPTER 150: CH-150: NOT A BEAST

The wind over the ridgeline was not the mountain’s.

It came from nowhere, from no proper direction, curling in on itself like a restless predator’s tail. The air thinned, and in that absence, something ancient stirred.

Deep within the labyrinth of stone spires beyond the orchard, a figure stood barefoot on black rock, unmoving as the cliff’s shadow. The wind pressed at his back and front both, as if the world leaned toward him.

His eyes were shut. His hearing, however, reached far — over valleys, over forests, over the orchard where Tian Shen now stood.

The pulse of a new core’s birth rolled through him. Not just any core, but one honed with precision. Dense. Dangerous. Controlled.

A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth.

"So, the boy lives."

The wind stilled.

...

Back at the Orchard. By noon, the Scouts were scattered into their drills. The sun burned bright above the orchard, its heat sinking into the damp soil, coaxing the fresh shoots from the ground.

Tian Shen walked the perimeter, pausing every dozen steps to examine the trees. Blossoms, still fragrant, clung to the higher branches. On the lower ones, fruit buds had begun to swell. The season’s change was coming faster than usual.

He traced one budding stem with a fingertip, feeling the soft push of life inside. That vitality, however, felt just a shade... off. Too quick.

"Something’s pressing the rhythm," he murmured.

Drowsy padded up beside him, craning her scaled neck to sniff the same branch. She huffed, the sound low and dissatisfied.

He crouched, eyes narrowing. Not pests. Not rot. The qi patterns in the orchard were... accelerated. Subtly bent, as though a hand was turning the wheel of a great clock just a touch faster.

Not enough to harm the trees now, but enough to alter their timing — perhaps enough to push a fruit to ripen before its defense was ready.

He straightened, scanning the treeline.

Nothing moved.

...

They met at the fire after the midday drills. Feng Yin was the first to break the silence.

"You’ve felt it too," she said, not as a question.

He nodded. "The orchard’s qi is being nudged. I don’t yet know by what."

Her gaze went to the horizon, toward the unseen ridgeline. "Not by accident. There’s a saying in my clan — ’When the river runs faster, it’s because someone upstream has opened a gate.’"

"And gates aren’t opened for free."

She met his eyes. "No. And not without intent."

...

By the time evening crept across the orchard, the younger Scouts had grown restless. Little Mei pretended to nap, but her fingers kept drumming against her knee. Ji Luan sharpened his spear three times over, each time slower, as if waiting for something to happen.

The air itself seemed charged, like the brief stillness before a storm’s first drop.

Tian Shen sat apart from them, repairing the leather wrap on his bracer. Every so often, his gaze flicked toward the west, where the ridgeline cast its long shadow over the orchard.

The feeling was the same as the moment before an ambush — a space where the world holds its breath.

...

It came at twilight.

A single blossom fell from the lantern tree, spinning lazily down through the dusk. But when it touched the ground, it did not rest.

Instead, it crumbled to ash.

The Scouts saw it. None spoke.

Tian Shen rose without a word, crossing the clearing to kneel beside the blackened smear. He pressed two fingers to it, feeling for heat.

Cold. Too cold. As though the life had been pulled from it, leaving only husk.

"Pack your gear," he said, voice even.

Mei blinked. "We’re leaving? Now?"

"Not leaving. Moving to the perimeter. Whatever’s touching the orchard, we meet it before it reaches the roots."

...

They took positions among the outermost trees, torches planted at measured intervals. Drowsy lay coiled just beyond the last ring of trunks, her gaze fixed on the dark beyond.

The night was moonless. Without the glow of the lantern tree’s blossoms, the orchard would have been pitch-black.

Tian Shen stood still enough to be mistaken for part of the bark. His senses reached outward, every ripple in the air traced, every whisper of leaf counted.

For a long time, there was nothing.

Then —

A breath.

Not his. Not human. A slow, dragging inhale, so faint it could have been mistaken for wind — except there was no wind.

...

It stepped into the torchlight.

Not a beast, though it walked on four limbs. Its body was a lattice of bone and black mist, shifting and reforming as it moved. Where eyes should have been, there was only a pair of faint silver rings, rotating slowly.

Ji Luan’s grip on his spear whitened. "What—"

"Don’t speak," Tian Shen said, his voice quiet but cutting through the tension.

The thing stopped just inside the light, head tilting as though listening. Then it took a step forward, and every torch along the perimeter guttered — not from wind, but as if their flames were being drunk away.

Tian Shen moved then, stepping between the creature and the nearest tree.

The silver rings fixed on him. The black mist curled tighter around its bones.

...

When it lunged, it was silent.

Tian Shen met it head-on, palm striking forward. The impact was like hitting water that instantly froze into stone — the mist hardened, caught his strike, and for a heartbeat, they were locked.

The crystal core in his dantian pulsed once. Power flowed, quick and sharp, into his arm. He twisted his palm, breaking the lock, and the thing staggered back, mist fraying from its form.

It did not retreat. Instead, it tilted its head again — and spoke.

Not in words, but in a sound like bone dragged across stone. The meaning came directly into his mind:

"You’ve stepped too far."

...

The second lunge was faster. The mist condensed into a spear of shadow, thrust toward his chest.

He pivoted, catching it with the side of his forearm and driving his other hand into its rib lattice. The bones rang — not breaking, but vibrating, as if they were tuned to some hidden pitch.

The vibration shot back up his arm, numbing his fingers. The creature’s silver rings narrowed.

Feng Yin moved then, her blade flashing in a clean arc. The strike bit into the mist, scattering it — but the bones within shifted aside as if the weapon had passed through air.

It leapt back, mist closing over the gap.

...

It stood there for a long moment, mist roiling in thicker waves. Then, slowly, it began to step backward. The silver rings dimmed, the bones fading into shadow until nothing remained.

But before it vanished fully, the voice came again — quieter, but clear:

"We will meet when the blossoms fall a second time."

Then it was gone.

The torches flared back to life as though someone had removed a lid from them.

...

No one spoke for a moment. The air felt lighter, but the weight in their chests remained.

"What was that?" Mei asked finally, her voice smaller than usual.

Tian Shen shook his head calmly.

"Not a beast. Not like the ones I’ve met before."

Feng Yin wiped her blade clean, though there was nothing on it.

"It didn’t come to kill. It came to... See, perhaps?"

"Then maybe it has came what it crave for," Ji Luan said darkly.

...

Back at the camp, Tian Shen sat apart again, this time with his spear across his knees. His mind replayed the clash, the feel of that strange bone lattice, the cold in the blossom’s ash.

Whoever — or whatever — was behind this had a long reach. And if they truly meant to return when the blossoms fell again...

That was only months away, moments away.

His hand tightened on the shaft of the spear. The Core Reinforcement had given him time — but time was no longer an idle gift.

It was a countdown.

Far beyond the ridgeline, on the black rock where the wind had first turned, the barefoot figure opened his eyes.

The silver rings were there too.

And they were smiling.

The smile lingered only a breath before the figure turned away from the cliff’s edge.

Behind him, the black stone rose into a jagged spire, its surface carved with lines that pulsed faintly like veins of molten silver. He laid a hand upon it, and the pulsing stilled — as if the mountain itself had been listening.

"The roots have been touched," he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. "The tree will not bear as it once did."

A shadow moved at the base of the spire — another shape, leaner, cloaked in folds of mist. "Shall I cut them now?" it asked, the words drifting like smoke.

"Not yet," the barefoot man said. "We will watch. And when the second fall comes... we will harvest."

The wind returned then, carrying no scent and no sound, but in the orchard far below, a single unopened bud shivered.