The group pressed forward in uneasy quiet, their initial alertness dulling into casual remarks and the crunch of boots against uneven ground. Though the path ahead was unfamiliar, the absence of immediate threats lulled them into a fragile sense of security—one that felt too still, too uneventful, as if something unseen lurked just beyond the edges of their awareness.

  Then the silence shattered.

  It came without warning. No slow build-up. No subtle cues. One moment, they were moving, breathing, existing. The next, confusion struck like a hammer—eyes darting, muscles tensing, minds scrambling to grasp what had changed.

  Then the smell hit.

  It wasn’t just foul. It was an assault, a thick, gut-wrenching wave of decay and filth, sinking deep into their lungs. It was wrong—unnatural, like something that should never have been unearthed. A breath was all it took to ruin them.

  Someone gagged, doubling over. Another staggered back, cursing between ragged coughs. Sleeves yanked over faces, hands clamped over noses, but it was pointless. The stench clung like rot in damp wood, refusing to let go.

  Aaryan moved first.

  “Move! Don’t breathe it in!” His voice was sharp, cutting through the rising chaos. His gaze locked onto the man at the centre of it all. “It’s mildly poisonous. Inhale too much, and you’ll end up like him.”

  The ‘him’ in question didn’t need an introduction. His legs trembled, fingers gripping his stomach as if he could claw the sickness out of himself. His breaths came in ragged shudders, his face pale, sweat-drenched. Regret shone in his glassy eyes, as if he wished he could undo the last few moments of his life.

  The group scrambled back, desperate to escape the suffocating air. Their retreat was frantic, bodies colliding, feet slipping over loose stones.

  Jivak’s glare locked onto Aaryan, his hands curling into fists. “You knew,” he said, voice edged with anger. “You knew what that petal would do, and you didn’t warn us?”

  Before Aaryan could respond, a heavy metallic creak sliced through the tension.

  The Silver-Armoured General moved, shifting with the slow deliberation of someone entirely unimpressed. His gaze swept over them, cold and unreadable, like weighing tools that had already been deemed faulty.

  “Enough.” His voice was steel, sharp and absolute. “If this is all it takes to shake you, you don’t belong here. Move, or stay behind choking on your own stupidity.”

  The finality in his tone left no room for argument.

  Sharan exhaled sharply, irritation flickering across his face before vanishing behind a carefully neutral mask. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The message was clear. Without another word, the group packed up and pressed forward. Their steps were quiet, dampened under the weight of the General’s scrutiny.

  ?? — ? — ??

  The journey dragged on. The mountains loomed ahead, jagged and unwelcoming, their peaks dissolving into the mist. The air grew thinner, colder. Every step felt heavier, the silence pressing down on them, thick with unspoken thoughts. Conversations had dried up miles ago, leaving only the sound of boots crunching against uneven ground.

  After what felt like hours, one of the elders finally broke the silence. The same man who had dismissed Aaryan earlier. He approached, his expression as rigid as ever. “You’re not as useless as I thought,” he muttered, voice gruff.

  Aaryan didn’t react. No satisfaction. No gratitude. Just a slight nod. He didn’t need the man’s approval. He never had. But it was a shift—small, barely perceptible, but there nonetheless.

  The villagers stole glances at him. Their eyes still held shades of doubt, whispers of pity, streaks of contempt. But there was something else now, creeping in beneath it all. A new emotion. Faint, hesitant, but unmistakable.

  Admiration.

  Aaryan wasn’t sure what to make of it. Respect was an odd thing. Knowledge granted power, but it didn’t always demand reverence. Sometimes, it only bred resentment.

  He exhaled softly and walked ahead of the group. Their acceptance, their judgment—it was their burden, not his. What mattered was that, when it counted, his quick thinking had earned him something far more tangible than their approval.

  Survival.

  Behind him, Jivak’s glare burned against his back, smouldering with something ugly. Aaryan could almost hear the unspoken accusations in the man’s head. But Jivak had no choice but to let it go. There was no time for grudges. Not yet. Not until they were safely out of these mountains.

  The day moved swiftly, the path ahead demanding every ounce of focus. The terrain grew harsher, forcing them to slow down. By the time evening approached, they had finally reached the mountaintop. The sun had begun its descent, streaking the sky with molten gold and deep crimson. Shadows stretched long over the land, swallowing the forest below in creeping darkness.

  The scouts had already chosen a clearing. Without a word, the group got to work. Tents rose around a central fire, hands moving efficiently, bodies running on exhaustion and routine.

  As night fell, the leaders gathered. The fire crackled between them, casting flickering light over their faces. The air was thick with unspoken tension, the kind that settled deep into the bones.

  Sharan lifted a hand. The movement alone was enough to quiet the murmurs. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, measured, carrying easily through the silence.

  Sharan’s gaze swept over them, his expression unreadable. “You all know how important this mission is,” he said, voice steady. “But not all of you may know the full details. I’ll explain now so we’re all prepared.”

  Silence followed, thick and heavy. The weight of his words pressed into the space between them.

  “We are here to capture three wild beasts known as scorpion-tail wolves.”

  Stillness.

  Then, a shift—small, but undeniable. A tension that wasn’t there before now coiled in the air. It slithered through the group, tightening shoulders, setting jaws. Fear. Not yet spoken, but growing.

  “These creatures are dangerous,” Sharan continued, his tone even. “Capturing them will not be easy.”

  A ripple of unease spread through the gathered men and women. Some swallowed hard. Others stiffened, trying to mask their reaction.

  Aaryan watched their faces. He saw the fear in the way their breath hitched, in the subtle tightening of fingers over weapon hilts. Most of them weren’t cultivators. They didn’t need to understand the intricacies of power to recognize the danger ahead.

  Because everyone knew the stories.

  Scorpion-tail wolves weren’t just beasts.

  A single one was a nightmare. Fast. Ruthless. Intelligent. Their black fur swallowed moonlight, turning them into living shadows. Their tails—long, segmented, and armed with venomous barbs—struck with the speed of a scorpion’s sting. Claws sharp enough to carve through stone. Hides tougher than mountain rock.

  A full-grown wolf could rival a cultivator at the peak of the third stage of Anima.

  A group of villagers facing them?

  That wasn’t danger. That was suicide.

  “These aren’t just wolves,” someone muttered, barely above a whisper.

  Aaryan’s throat tightened. He had read about them. Studied accounts. But hearing it spoken aloud, so plain, so matter-of-fact, sent a chill down his spine.

  Sharan must have sensed the panic creeping in. His voice cut through it, sharp and unyielding. “There is no need to panic. They fled from the city generals who were hunting them. All we need to do is assist in their capture. If we succeed, we share in the rewards.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The promise of reward softened the fear, but not by much.

  “This mission will help the village chief’s plans for the future,” Sharan added. “We don’t have the luxury of turning back.”

  The unease didn’t vanish, but his authority held them steady.

  Still, Aaryan couldn’t shake the feeling gnawing at his gut.

  They weren’t just hunting beasts. They were walking straight into something worse.

  Aaryan kept his face blank, but his mind spun. Something felt off. The city generals had been after these creatures, yet now a handful of villagers were supposed to handle them? It didn’t add up.

  He took a slow breath. “Junior Chief, if three of them are still alive, even if they’re injured, how do we know our numbers are enough?”

  A few villagers shifted. Some avoided his gaze. Others looked relieved. No one else had dared ask. Until now, he was just an outsider. A stray thrown in with them. But something shifted. Their contempt didn’t vanish, but it dulled. A few even looked at him like he belonged.

  Nayan’s glare snapped to him, sharp as a blade. Irritation flickered across his face. He looked ready to put Aaryan in his place. But before he could, a shift of movement stole the camp’s attention.

  The Silver-Armoured General barely moved, but his presence alone was enough to quiet them. Firelight glinted off his armour, turning him into something more steel than man.

  “The beasts are not fully matured. They’ve sustained significant injuries from our last engagement.” His voice was steady, flat. “There is nothing for you to be concerned about.”

  Final. Absolute. A dismissal wrapped in certainty.

  The villagers exchanged glances, unease still creeping in at the edges, but no one argued. If the Silver-Armoured General said it would be fine, who were they to question him?

  With that, the meeting ended. The villagers scattered, some murmuring, others silent. The fire crackled, a lonely sound in the night.

  Aaryan lingered. His gaze landed on the village chief. The old man’s eyes flickered between the hunters, tracking their movements. He clenched his fists. If the chief got his hands on a beast core, he could buy the medicine his sons needed.

  Before he could think on it further, a scoff cut through the air.

  “This is suicide for people like us.” The voice was rough, worn with years. An older hunter, arms crossed, shook his head. “And I’m not about to die for someone else’s reward.”

  Another man grunted. “The generals call this a hunt, but we all know what it really is.”

  Aaryan didn’t answer. He knew what they meant. Knew what they feared.

  The words settled like a weight in Aaryan’s chest. Practical. Ruthless. But undeniably true.

  ?? — ? — ??

  Days bled into each other. Frustration simmered. The wolves were ghosts, their tracks fading like whispers in the wind. The hunting parties pushed deeper into the forest, combing every shadowed grove. A week passed. Nothing. Camp grew restless. Every empty-handed return only sharpened the tension.

  By the ninth day, exhaustion clung to them like a sickness.

  Aaryan was on patrol when it happened.

  A scream shattered the quiet.

  He froze. The forest had gone unnaturally still. The crickets had stopped. The wind no longer whispered through the leaves. Everything felt wrong—like unseen eyes lurked just beyond sight.

  Then he moved.

  By the time he reached the camp, chaos had taken root.

  A blur of black—too fast. Too precise.

  Another scream, strangled before it could fully form. The fire flickered wildly, its light dancing against the frantic movement. A figure tore past him, gasping, eyes wide with raw terror.

  Aaryan didn’t need to see the bodies to know the truth.

  The wolves weren’t just hunting.

  They were playing.

  Too cunning for a head-on attack, they picked their prey carefully, striking in the dark and fading like mist before anyone could react.

  His gaze swept the destruction. Torn fabric clung to a broken tent pole. A boot, slick with something dark, lay abandoned. Blood hung thick in the air, metal and earth mingling in a scent that crawled under his skin.

  His fingers brushed against something wet.

  Sticky.

  Blood.

  A strangled noise broke the quiet. One of the younger men staggered back, his face pale as he stared at the ground, now slick with crimson.

  “The chief sent us into this mess?” His voice shook, caught between rage and something colder. “Shoved us in blind? Damn him.” His hands curled into fists. “Damn all of it.”

  The silver-armoured leaders wasted no time. They formed a search party and vanished into the dark.

  They returned hours later.

  With nothing.

  Whispers spread like infection, hushed and insidious. Fear thickened in the air, clinging to every breath, sinking into every bone.

  Later that night, in the shadows of the camp, the real battle began.

  Nayan stood with the silver-clad commanders. Sharan faced them, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone. Aaryan lingered in the background, silent, listening.

  “This isn’t a hunt anymore,” Sharan muttered, voice low but edged. “We’re being picked off. If something doesn’t change, we’ll be the ones left rotting in the dirt.”

  Nayan’s jaw tightened. “We finish this.”

  Sharan let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “Look around.” He gestured to the camp, to the hollow-eyed men, to the dwindling fires. “Another few days, and there won’t be anyone left to fight.”

  One of the leaders scoffed. “If we falter, the villagers will crumble.”

  Sharan’s gaze was like a blade. “They’re already crumbling. Push them any harder, and they’ll break for good.”

  Nayan flexed his fingers, knuckles white. “Then I’ll make sure they don’t.”

  Silence stretched, brittle and thin. Then Sharan shook his head. “Stubborn bastard.” He turned, his cloak whispering against the cold. “Fine. Just don’t act surprised when this all caves in.”

  He walked off, not bothering to wait for a response.

  Nayan watched him go, unreadable. Then, turning to the others, he spoke, his voice like steel cooled in ice. “Keep the men in line. We’re not leaving until this is over.”

  The camp fell into a hush, heavy with the things no one dared say aloud. But it was there, in the way men pressed closer to the flames, in the way their hands never strayed far from their weapons, in the way their eyes flicked to the trees at the faintest sound.

  No one wanted to be next.

  The next two days only sharpened the knife.

  Four more men vanished. No bodies. No trails. Just empty spaces where they should have been.

  Fear gnawed through the camp, a slow, rotting thing.

  At first, they had been hunters. Now, they were prey. And no one knew when the wolves would strike again.

  The promise of rewards lost its meaning. No one cared about beast cores or riches anymore—they just wanted to make it out alive. But leaving was just as dangerous as staying. Aaryan saw it in their faces. Some had already considered running, but they hesitated, bound by something stronger than fear. The wolves weren’t the only threat. The village chief loomed just as large in their minds. Failure was not an option. If they fled, they would return as cowards. Or worse, they wouldn’t be allowed to return at all.

  They weren’t warriors. They weren’t soldiers. They were pawns, tossed into a game they didn’t understand, their lives weighed and discarded by men who saw them as nothing more than tools.

  Murmurs of betrayal rippled through the camp, hushed whispers of suspicion and doubt. Tensions rose with each passing hour. Something was going to break.

  And Nayan knew it.

  Frustrated by the growing unrest, he acted before the whispers turned into open defiance. Two men were dragged into the center of camp, their faces pale, their wrists bound. The campfire cast sharp shadows across Nayan’s face, the flickering light making the rage in his eyes seem almost alive. His hands clenched into fists, the tendons standing out like steel wires.

  Without warning, he struck the first man across the face. The crack of the impact was sharp, brutal. The man stumbled, crashing into the dirt. He groaned, clutching his jaw, but Nayan didn’t stop. He turned to the second, driving a fist into his stomach. The man doubled over with a strangled gasp, collapsing to his knees.

  “You think this is a game?” Nayan’s voice was low, dangerous. He grabbed the first man by the collar and yanked him up, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Spreading rumours? Doubting my command? You think that’ll keep you alive?”

  The beaten men didn’t answer. They didn’t dare.

  Nayan straightened, his gaze sweeping across the onlookers. The firelight reflected in his eyes, cold and merciless. “Anyone else feel like running their mouth?”

  Silence.

  The message was clear. The fear of the wolves had been overshadowed by a greater, more immediate threat. No one dared challenge Nayan now.

  Aaryan clenched his teeth. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

  It didn’t matter what I do. The outcome is already decided.

  The weight of it settled over him, thick and suffocating. No matter how hard he fought, the rules had already been set. The strong decided. The weak obeyed. That was the way of things.

  Unless he changed it.

  I will hold my fate in my own hands. No one else will control it.

  Aaryan turned toward his tent, but movement caught his eye. Two of Nayan’s men stood near the supply crates, speaking in hushed voices. He slowed his steps, listening.

  “I heard the village chief is taking the junior chiefs for disciple selection at the cultivation sect,” one of them muttered.

  The second man let out a quiet laugh. “Not just that. He’s buying rare pills to make sure they get selected. Once our boss becomes a cultivator, who in these villages would dare stand against us?”

  Aaryan’s pulse steadied, his thoughts sharpening like a blade against a whetstone.

  No wonder they’re willing to throw lives away for this hunt.

  The wolves weren’t the end goal. They were a means to something bigger.

  The city generals had come to the village chief, desperate for reinforcements after suffering heavy losses. They needed men to finish the hunt, and the chief had plenty to spare. The wolves were valuable—if they carried beast cores, their worth would be immense. Even without them, their remains could be refined into rare pills and elixirs.

  For the chief, this was the perfect deal. The hunt didn’t matter. The men sent to die here didn’t matter. Whether they won or lost, he would walk away with wealth, influence, and enough resources to guarantee his sons and the junior chiefs a place in the sect.

  For him, it was an investment.

  For the rest of them, it was a death sentence.

  Aaryan exhaled slowly, his gaze sweeping over the villagers slumped by the fires, their faces drawn, their bodies exhausted. They had no idea. They thought they were here to prove themselves, to fight for a reward that had never truly been meant for them.

  They had already been sold.

  Is human life really worth so little?

  He had always known the world was unfair. But this—this was something else. This was deliberate. Calculated. The men who sent them here had known most wouldn’t come back, and they hadn’t cared. Every piece had been moved with precision.

  Aaryan clenched his fists.

  A few feet away, a small group sat around a dying fire. Their shoulders were hunched, their eyes hollow. He recognized some of them—men who once would’ve mocked him, ignored him entirely. Now, there was no strength left for that. Fear had stripped them down to their barest selves. The only thing that remained was the simple, desperate will to survive.

  He sighed and lowered himself onto a log beside them. The fire crackled weakly, tiny embers drifting into the cold air.

  No one spoke.

  No one needed to.

  The truth was already there, thick in the silence.

  Who was the real hunter?

  The wolves?

  Or the village chief?

  Aaryan sat there for a long time, watching the flames flicker and shrink. He didn’t move until they faded to embers, until the cold settled in. Then, slowly, he rose and made his way back to his tent.

  Tomorrow would come soon enough.

  https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/108046/destiny-reckoninga-xianxia-cultivation-progression