Dao of the World Walker (Xianxia) Book 2

Yang had always felt safe with Grandpa Chen. Even at eight years old, with the memories of an adult life lingering in his mind, he understood that their little mud hut was a place where nothing bad could happen. Grandpa Chen’s gentle hands and warm voice kept the harsh world at bay.

Tonight felt different, though. There was tension in the village. Yang had noticed it during the day when they’d gone to the well for water. Hushed conversations that stopped when they approached. Sideways glances that felt heavy with something ugly.

But inside their home, with the small fire crackling and Grandpa Chen humming while he repaired a torn basket, Yang felt the familiar comfort of safety. He sat cross-legged on their threadbare blanket, playing with a few smooth stones Grandpa Chen had found by the river.

”Grandpa, tell me about the spirits in the forest,” Yang said, arranging his stones in careful patterns.

Grandpa Chen smiled, his eyes crinkling with the kind of warmth that made Yang feel like he was the most important person in the world. ”Which spirits, little Yang? The ones that protect travelers, or the ones that lead the wicked astray?”

”The protecting ones.”

”Ah, those are the kindest spirits. They watch over children and old men who mean no harm to anyone.” Grandpa Chen’s voice carried that gentle cadence that always made Yang drowsy. ”They guide lost souls to safety, warn them of danger with whispers on the wind.”

Yang was about to ask another question when they both heard it. Footsteps outside. Heavy, deliberate boots on the packed earth around their hut.

Grandpa Chen’s hands went still on the basket. The humming stopped.

”Yang,” Grandpa Chen whispered, his voice suddenly urgent. ”Come here. Behind me.”

Yang had never heard that tone from his grandfather before. Fear crept up his spine as he scrambled behind Grandpa Chen’s thin frame just as the door burst open.

A man filled the doorway. Yang recognized him, Liu Wei, one of the village merchants. But his face was twisted with something ugly that made Yang’s stomach clench with terror.

”Old fool,” Liu Wei snarled, stepping into their small home without invitation. ”Did you think we wouldn’t notice?”

”Liu Wei,” Grandpa Chen said calmly, but Yang could feel the tremor in his grandfather’s voice. ”What brings you here so late?”

”You know what brings me here.” Liu Wei’s hand moved to something at his belt, the glint of metal in the firelight. ”Those men who came through last week. The ones you helped with information about the mountain passes. You think we’re stupid?”

Yang didn’t understand what they were talking about, but he could feel Grandpa Chen’s body tense in front of him.

”I don’t know what you mean,” Grandpa Chen said quietly.

”Don’t lie to me!” Liu Wei’s voice exploded in the small space. ”You provided information to our competitors. It’s going to cost us a fortune in lost trade routes. And for what? A few copper coins?”

”I helped a lost traveler find his way,” Grandpa Chen said with a dignity that somehow made Yang’s chest swell with pride even through his fear. ”Nothing more.”

”Helping,” Liu Wei spat. ”Always helping. Always trying to be the saint while the rest of us struggle to survive.”

The metal at Liu Wei’s belt was a knife. Yang saw it clearly now as the man drew it from its sheath. The blade caught the firelight and threw dancing shadows on the walls.

”Please,” Grandpa Chen said, and Yang heard something break in his grandfather’s voice. ”The boy. Let me send the boy away.”

Liu Wei’s eyes found Yang cowering behind Grandpa Chen’s thin frame. For a moment, something that might have been conscience flickered across his features. But it died quickly, replaced by the cold calculation of a man who had already made his choice.

”The boy has seen too much. Knows too much. Just like his grandfather.”

”He’s eight years old,” Chen whispered. ”He doesn’t understand anything.”

”Smart boy, though. I’ve seen him, always watching, always listening quietly.” Liu Wei stepped closer. ”Too smart for his own good. Just like you.”

Grandpa Chen’s hand found Yang’s small one and squeezed. ”Yang,” he said quietly, not taking his eyes off Liu Wei. ”Do you remember the game we play? Where you run to the forest edge as fast as you can?”

Yang nodded, tears already burning his eyes.

”When I tell you to run, you run to the forest. But this time, don’t stop at the edge. Keep running until you can’t run anymore. Do you understand?”

”Grandpa...” Yang said, his voice breaking.

”Promise me, Yang. Promise you’ll run and not look back,” Grandpa said desperately.

”I promise,” Yang whispered, knowing how this was going to end.

Liu Wei raised the knife. ”Enough talk. Do you think I’m going to let the boy go? Zhao is outside with his brothers. He’ll never let the brat get away.”

”Run, Yang!” Grandpa Chen’s voice cracked like thunder as he lunged forward, throwing his frail body between the knife and Yang. ”RUN!”

Yang ran.

Behind him, he heard the wet sound of metal piercing flesh. Heard Chen’s sharp intake of breath, cut short. Heard Liu Wei curse as Chen’s body hit the ground. Yang knew Grandpa was dead, and he felt an agonizing pain in his chest.

But Yang didn’t look back. He crashed through their small garden, trampling the vegetables Grandpa Chen had tended so carefully. His bare feet hit the dirt path, and he dodged the men waiting outside, some of them even falling in their desperation to catch him. But instead of heading toward the other houses, he turned toward the dark line of trees that marked the beginning of the forest.

The villagers will take everything, Yang’s mind raced even as his legs pumped. They’ll take our hut, our blankets, everything Grandpa worked for. And if they catch me...

He knew what happened to children with no family in their village. He’d seen them, the hollow-eyed ones who scrubbed floors for scraps of food, who bore marks on their backs from the switch. The ones who disappeared entirely when they got too thin to be useful.

This world doesn’t care about kindness, Yang thought desperately. Grandpa was good, and they killed him for it.

The forest edge approached faster than ever before. Usually, this was where Grandpa Chen would call him back, where their little games ended, and they’d walk home together hand in hand with Grandpa Chen telling him stories.

But this time, Yang plunged into the darkness between the trees.

Branches whipped his face, drew lines of blood across his cheeks and arms. His small tunic caught on thorns, tore, and left pieces of fabric behind as he crashed through undergrowth that seemed determined to hold him back.

But he kept running. His chest burned. His legs felt like they might give out. Tears blinded him so completely that he was running more by feel than sight, careening off tree trunks, stumbling over roots, driven by pure terror.

Grandpa is dead. Grandpa is dead. Grandpa is dead.

The words hammered in his skull with each pounding step. The man who had given up everything to keep Yang alive was gone. The gentle hands that had held him as a baby, the warm voice that had sung him to sleep, the patient smile that had made Yang feel like he was the most important person in the world, all of it snuffed out by a knife in the dark.

Yang didn’t know how long he ran. Time meant nothing when your whole world had just collapsed. But suddenly, in the middle of his blind flight, he froze.

Fear.

Not the fear he’d been feeling since Liu Wei appeared in their doorway. This was different. Older. Primal. It rose from within him like mist, wrapped around his small body like invisible hands.

Something was wrong here. Something that made his skin crawl and his breath catch in his throat. Every instinct he had, both from this life and whatever remained from his previous one, screamed at him to turn away from whatever lay ahead in the darkness.

Turn right. Turn right, NOW.

The thought came from nowhere, urgent and clear. Yang didn’t question it. He veered sharply to the right and kept running, crashing through a different section of forest with the same desperate speed.

Behind him, something howled. Long and mournful and hungry. Yang’s blood turned to ice, but his legs found new strength. He ran harder, faster, driven by the knowledge that whatever had made that sound was exactly what his instincts had warned him away from.