The Expedition

The sun hung above Glory City like a pale lantern, shedding light without warmth. Its indifference made the busy streets below seem smaller, as if all their schemes and promises could be blown away like market dust.

But Nie Li walked with purpose. The Voice had spoken at dawn, clear as steel striking stone.

Four repeating crossbows. Fanged arak sap. Iron fern. The poison will break the giants before they break your line.

There was no argument in the Voice, no space for doubt. Nie Li had stopped trying to resist it.

They slipped into the eastern merchant square while the stalls were still being opened. Merchants shouted half-heartedly, shaking out fabrics and stacking jars of herbs. The air smelled of smoke, spice, and damp parchment.

Every step tugged against fresh wounds. The straps of their packs rubbed raw across the new scars carved into their backs. None of them spoke of it, but each movement was stiff, deliberate — as though they were already carrying crosses invisible to the rest of the city.

Nie Li moved quickly, his mind already charting a path through the rows of vendors.
“First the crossbows,” he murmured.

Lu Piao groaned. “Oh, good. Let’s go look even more like we’re ditching class to hunt rabbits.”

Du Ze shot him a look. “We need them. Even if you don’t like it.”

“Fine,” Lu Piao muttered. “But when mine jams and I die, bury me with a real sword.”

The merchant who sold repeating crossbows was a broad-shouldered noble with sharp eyes. His lip curled when he saw Nie Li approach — until Xiao Ning’er stepped forward.

Recognition shifted his whole posture. “Miss Xiao. An honor.” His tone sweetened instantly. “What brings you here?”

She gave only a single nod. Nie Li caught her glance and stepped in smoothly.
“We’ll take four of the military-grade repeaters. The simple make. No engravings.”

The man blinked. “Unenchanted? For… outer students?”

Ning’er’s silence said enough. A bundle of demon spirit coins passed between them, heavy enough to quiet any further questions.

When they walked away, Lu Piao whistled low.
“You didn’t even haggle. That was a fortune.”

“It was the fastest way,” Ning’er said, tightening her cloak.

Nie Li glanced back once. “And worth every coin.”

Du Ze hefted one of the bows, running his hand over the stock. “It’s plain. Heavy. But it won’t betray you.”

“That’s the point,” Nie Li said. “We’re not carrying them to look impressive. They’re tools, not banners.”

They threaded into the narrower alleys where herbs were sold. Here the smell thickened — sharp roots, drying leaves, acrid oils. Nie Li stopped at three different stalls, choosing with unnerving precision: vials of fanged arak sap, bundles of iron fern, a measure of black fire bark, powdered snake mint to mask the odor of the final mix.

Lu Piao stared as Nie Li ground a sample together in a glass bowl, the mixture turning dark and viscous.
“Brilliant. We’re sneaking into ruins with poison now. This keeps getting better.”

“It’s for the apes,” Nie Li replied without looking up.

Du Ze frowned. “The giant blue-armed kind?”

Nie Li’s silence was confirmation enough.

“How do you know we’ll run into them?” Ning’er asked, her eyes narrowing.

“The Voice said so,” Nie Li answered. “And in my first life, I saw them with my own eyes.”

That silenced the group. Even Lu Piao stopped joking.

Nie Li corked the vial and slipped it into his robe. “Trust me. This will matter.”

By midday they approached the eastern gate. The streets were alive with noise, groups of inner court disciples laughing and boasting, their weapons gleaming with inscriptions. Spirit beasts flickered faintly around them like captive fire.

Nie Li slowed his pace, watching them. Once, he would have envied the spectacle. Now he felt only pity. Their soul-force screamed like caged animals. The noise was unbearable to him now.

“They shine,” Ning’er whispered, her silver eyes unsettled. “But it’s the wrong kind of light. Too hot. Too fast.”

Du Ze nodded. “A furnace burning itself empty.”

Lu Piao hugged his crossbow closer. “And here we are — four cripples with farmer weapons. Perfect.”

Nie Li almost smiled. “Not cripples. Sealed.”

Thirty-seven students stood at the gate, packs strapped, tents rolled, blades and bows gleaming. At the front, Chen Linjian unfurled a great map scroll across a field desk.

He was impossible to miss. Taller than most, broad-shouldered, straight-backed. His hair tied neatly, his clothes rich without being gaudy. He gestured with a confident ease that made people want to listen.

The noise of the gateyard dimmed when he spoke. Even the haughtiest young nobles leaned in to hear. His presence didn’t demand silence — it created it, as if authority clung to his shoulders like armor.

“Waterproof your scrolls. If you can’t hit a hare at twenty paces, stay behind. If your boots aren’t broken in, you’ll regret it by nightfall.” His voice carried like a commander’s, each word dropping like a stone into the crowd.

Lu Piao leaned in close to Nie Li.
“Who is this guy? And why does everyone look like they’d march into the abyss if he asked?”

Nie Li’s eyes narrowed. “Chen Linjian. Direct heir of the Divine Family. Generous to a fault — he’s been known to throw armor worth a hundred thousand coins into a crowd just to impress them.”

“Sounds nice,” Lu Piao said hopefully.

“Nice, yes. Dangerous, too,” Nie Li said. “Because people follow him without thinking. But he’s straightforward. Honest in his own way. That makes him useful — and trustworthy enough.”

Du Ze frowned. “So why would he let us join?”

“Because I told him something no one else knew,” Nie Li said simply. “About the ruins. About what waits there. I earned his respect once, and I knew I could again.”

Before Du Ze could ask more, Chen Linjian himself approached. His eyes swept over them — the plain bows, the simple packs, the lack of soul-force flickering around their bodies.

A dozen nobles snickered behind him. One muttered, loud enough to hear: “Farm tools for farm boys.” Another laughed, pointing at Lu Piao’s crossbow. “Hope the rabbits don’t bite.” Their words cut, but none sharper than the pitying looks — nobles who thought they were already corpses.

But Linjian only smiled.
“Nie Li. You made it.”

Nie Li bowed slightly. “Thank you for accepting us.”

“Accepting?” Linjian laughed. “You impressed me. You saw what others missed. If you say you’re coming, I’d be a fool to say no.”

His gaze lingered on the crossbows. “Strange choice of weapons. Not flashy enough for most.”

“They’ll do,” Nie Li said evenly.

Linjian chuckled. “I like that. No excuses, no show. Just confidence.” He turned to the others. “And these must be your companions. You’ve chosen well. The ruins aren’t kind to the careless.”

Lu Piao gawked openly. Ning’er inclined her head politely. Du Ze, after a pause, bowed with quiet respect.

“Stay near me when we march,” Linjian said, lowering his voice slightly. “The nobles won’t like it, but they’ll get used to you if you prove yourselves. And I suspect you will.”

He clapped Nie Li on the shoulder, then strode back toward his desk, already barking new orders.

When he was gone, Lu Piao muttered, “Did the future patriarch of the Divine Family just personally welcome us? I think I forgot how to breathe.”

“He’s not as untouchable as he looks,” Nie Li said, adjusting his pack. “Generous, yes. Strong, yes. But still human. Remember that.”

Du Ze glanced at Nie Li. “And you trust him?”

“I trust him to be exactly who he is,” Nie Li said. His eyes turned eastward, beyond the gate, to the shadow of distant ruins. “And that’s enough.”

Ning’er glanced between the two men. Linjian commanded a crowd by standing tall and speaking boldly. Nie Li commanded three companions by bleeding first and asking them to bleed after. Different strengths, different thrones. She wondered which would last longer.

The expedition began to move.

The gate groaned shut behind them, iron bolts slamming into place. Ahead stretched a broken horizon — jagged ridges, fields of stone, the shadow of ancient walls swallowed by vine and earth. Boots struck dirt in rhythm, thirty-seven strong, banners of houses glinting in the sun.

But in the midst of their march, four bore silence instead of banners, scars instead of emblems. The world thought them weak, yet the earth itself seemed to know — the Covenant had stepped beyond the walls.

Thirty-three walked for glory. Four walked for memory. And the Covenant passed through the eastern gate — toward ruin, toward remembrance, toward the tomb where the Scriptures waited.