From the Valley’s heart, a force had struck with grim purpose. Three warbands they mustered, Ouyang Hua leading one, Thirteen another, and the rest – those who had tasted the third stage of awakening – forming the last.

A fortnight passed. Save for Thirteen’s company, the others returned in triumph. Though wounds were borne and lives were lost, the spoils of war were rich.

But Thirteen’s absence cast a pall of shadow over the jubilant valley.

Only Wang Lin remained untouched, his gaze steady as stone. Three dawns later, a darkness descended from the heavens, a storm of ebony racing towards the valley. Upon closer scrutiny, the darkness resolved into a winged lion, its form flickering, dissolving into shadow only to coalesce once more. It was a spirit on the precipice of oblivion.

Lying prone upon the beast’s back was a figure, still and bloodied. A crimson thread writhed within his flesh, a parasite puppeteering its host in a gruesome dance.

The lion’s soul, the *Jing Po,* lurched towards the valley. Before it could reach the borders, several figures emerged from the valley’s heart, unfurling soul banners, releasing their *Lou Po* to infuse the beast with strength. The lion shuddered, its spirit flickering back to life.

All recognized the creature at once. It was Thirteen’s *Jing Po*. And the prone figure it bore? None other than Thirteen himself.

The wounded *Jing Po* whimpered as it breached the valley’s edge, its form dissolving into motes of shadow, ready to dissipate forever.

Then, a voice, calm yet resonant, echoed through the valley: “Bind Soul!”

At the utterance, the motes of darkness blazed with light. With unnatural speed, they reformed, the *Jing Po* made whole once more.

Reverence touched the faces of the tribesmen, and a path opened for Wang Lin. He walked forward, hands clasped behind his back.

The *Jing Po*, seeing Wang Lin, whimpered again, a plea of utter submission. Wang Lin extended a finger, and the *Jing Po* released a joyous cry, transforming into a streak of shadow, merging with his fingertip to become a black lion mark upon the pad.

Used to Wang Lin’s dominion over the *Jing Po*, the others dared not raise their eyes, bowing their heads in respect.

Wang Lin continued forward, stopping at Thirteen’s broken form. His brow furrowed.

The crimson thread, like a viper, still writhed within Thirteen’s flesh. His face was ashen, devoid of life.

Wang Lin knelt, his right hand pressed lightly against Thirteen’s chest. At the touch, a piercing shriek tore from the prone figure. From the point of contact, the crimson thread burst forth, striking towards Wang Lin.

His eyes flashed, and an unseen force emanated from his being. The crimson thread struck it as if a wall of iron, rebounding with a deafening crash.

Wang Lin’s fingers snapped closed, seizing the thread. Another desperate shriek rent the air as he ripped it free.

The thread, a yard long, twisted and writhed, a serpent of malice. It lunged again, only to be once more repelled.

Ice hardened Wang Lin’s gaze. He clenched his fist, unleashing the raging power of his core. The surge of arcane energy raced through the thread, snapping and crackling. In mere moments, the crimson thread turned to dust, scattering into nothingness.

With the thread gone, Thirteen’s pallid face flushed with returning life. Though unconscious, the shadow of death had passed. Yet Wang Lin’s expression darkened.

Thirteen was ruined.

The arcane energy, painstakingly built to the three-star standard, was gone, utterly extinguished. Worse, his veins were shattered, and his *Po-binding* banners were missing – stolen from him.

The enemy had been cruel, but not decisive. They had let the *Jing Po* bear its burden home. Why?

Wang Lin’s gaze narrowed. He formed his fingers into a sword, and touched them to Thirteen’s brow. At the same moment, his own arcane core pulsed, and its essence flowed through his meridians, into Thirteen’s head.

Thirteen shuddered, his eyes snapping open. He saw Wang Lin, and tried to rise in greeting, but his body refused. Pain, sharp and unrelenting, crashed through him.

“Master,” Thirteen whispered, the long-held respect finally escaping his lips.

Wang Lin’s eyes flickered, but he said nothing.

“On the way back… we met a large tribe. We tried to avoid them, but they attacked. An elder in white… he took my banners, and planted a corruption within me. He bid me deliver a message: if you want your banners back, come find him.”

Wang Lin nodded slowly. He raised his fingers, and Thirteen’s body slumped once more into unconsciousness.

“Take him to rest,” Wang Lin commanded. He stepped onto the air, and vanished in a wisp of emerald smoke.

The others obeyed, carrying Thirteen to his chambers. Guards were posted.

Wang Lin sped away from the valley, a phantom streak against the horizon. His face was grim, his eyes hard.

Thirteen had led the raid. The risks were known. Even in failure, Wang Lin would not interfere. Life and death were the coin of this realm. Wang Lin walked the path of reincarnation, and saw it all too clearly.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans. Thirteen, returning with captives, was set upon by a rival tribe in a brazen attack. Yet, instead of slaying the warrior, they cursed him, planting a dark seed of sorcery within his very being. This alone would have been a grievous insult, a matter for vengeful honor. But they went further, seizing his soul banner, leaving behind a taunting message: if he wished it back, he must seek them out.

Thus, the meaning shifted, hardened into a clear challenge, a declaration of war etched in blood and magic.

Thirteen was their living gauntlet, thrown at the feet of Wang Lin.

Having received this blatant challenge, Wang Lin vowed to discern what manner of being dared to provoke him. He would see who resided within this attacking tribe, what power resided within their hearts.

Wang Lin, a master of strategy, resolved to weigh the odds carefully. Should their sorcery be far beyond his own, he would swallow his pride, abandon this quest, and seek only to heal Thirteen and evade this dangerous foe.

Yet, such a possibility, while present, seemed unlikely. Wang Lin, with a single glance at Thirteen, divined that the perpetrator’s power was, at most, equivalent to a nascent god amongst mortals.

With a chilling snort, he quickened his pace, becoming a shooting star, cleaving through the sky, hurtling toward his destination.

The Tianshui tribe nestled in the northwestern reaches of the Demon Spirit Land, upon a desolate plain. This barren expanse was hardly ideal for habitation, save for the presence of an ancient and potent ward.

This ward, a masterpiece of forgotten artistry, cast its protective embrace across ten leagues. Within its shimmering veil, even the horrors of the Demon Spirit Nights were held at bay.

In this perilous land, a tribe’s very survival hinged upon the acquisition of such a protective ward. While not uncommon, wards of such magnitude, encompassing ten leagues, were rare indeed.

The greater the ward, the stronger its defenses, and more importantly, the greater the space for growth and prosperity. Where a mountain valley might constrict a tribe’s expansion, this plain, sheltered by its expansive ward, offered boundless potential.

Within the heart of the Tianshui tribe, in a modest dwelling, sat two elders.

One, cloaked in ash-grey robes, and the other in pristine white, sat in quiet contemplation across from each other, a set of violet tea service laid between them.

The white-robed elder lifted a cup, savoring the aroma. “Of all the trinkets those outsiders brought, only this tea pleases the Chieftain’s palate.”

The grey-robed elder mirrored the action, sipping the brew. “When do you return?”

The white-robed elder paused, his brow furrowing. “Tomorrow, perhaps. I cannot linger too long away from the Ancient Demon City. My family visit has already stretched a month. General Zuo Yi will not be pleased with my absence.”

The grey-robed elder nodded, a hint of concern in his voice. “You injured his disciple, seized that peculiar banner… What if this provocation draws retaliation?”

The white-robed elder’s eyes glinted. “Let them come! The ward will be their tomb!”

The grey-robed elder frowned, his voice heavy. “These are no mere brigands. Each possessed demon energy exceeding one star, and they wielded techniques and divine abilities. Especially their leader, who seemed to command the banner to summon vengeful souls. They offered no offense, yet you coveted their banner, resorting to theft and violence, and then allowing their leader to leave, in effect, issuing a challenge to his master. This was… excessive.”

The white-robed elder laughed, a chilling sound. “I am an Attendant of General Zuo Yi of the Ancient Demon City. What is the life of a few wildlings to me? I wager their master is of little consequence. One of real power would not languish in some backwater tribe but would seek their fortune in the Ancient Demon City. I lured him out to glean the secrets of that banner. If he comes, well and good. If not, I shall simply follow the mark I left upon that young warrior and seize the knowledge by force!”

“You doubt the incantations the youth possessed?” the grey-robed elder asked.

“Not false, but incomplete. There must be more to it,” the white-robed elder replied, his voice dripping with avarice.