Under the sprawling branches of an ancient oak, Yinmo finally collapsed, his exhausted body barely managing each ragged breath. The roaring mockery of his clansmen had faded into the background, leaving only the deep, hollow fatigue of a battered soul. The memories of the day's torment—including the derisory taunts during the chase—mingled with the silence of the dark forest, painting an unyielding picture of abandonment and bitter exploitation.
In the solitude of the half-lit night, Yinmo's mind churned with the familiar sting of betrayal. He remembered, in painful detail, how his uncle had once cloaked him in feigned affection, only to discard him like a worthless pawn when it became clear that Lei Xuan's brilliance outshone his. That bittersweet illusion had left him with more questions than answers about his own place within the Moonveil Clan. But there was no time for such introspection now—only the need to survive.
As he struggled to push himself upward, an unsettling sound stirred from the darkness at the forest's edge. Slowly, nearly imperceptibly at first, the sound of low, shifting wind grew louder until distinct shapes began to take form among the shadows. A pack of wind wolves emerged—their presence both common in these woods and unnervingly coordinated in their approach. Unlike true magical beasts that might speak only when fully formed in their cultivation, these wolves employed their instinct and the eerie vibrations of the wind to communicate.
Before Yinmo could regain his footing, one of the wolves surged forward in a blur of motion, its jaws snapping mere inches from his face. A rough, menacing voice—synthesized in the howling gusts—cut through the chaos:
"Look who's here!"
The words rang out coldly, as if the pack had gathered solely for this grisly purpose. Startled into action, Yinmo tried desperately to scramble away. His legs, already overcome by fatigue, now betrayed him; as he pushed forward, his foot caught on a tangled mass of roots. With a harsh, echoing thud, he slipped and tumbled to the cold ground.
The impact sent a spray of blood across the leaf-strewn floor. In that moment, tiny droplets of blood essence mingled visibly with his bleeding flesh—a macabre, glistening fountain that seemed to capture every ounce of his life force. For a split second, time slowed as he felt both the searing sting of injury and the cold pinch of despair.
Helpless on the ground, Yinmo's eyes widened in terror as the pack of wind wolves closed in. With slow, deliberate steps, they encircled him, their predatory eyes reflecting in the dim night. The murmured words from one of the wolves, barely more than a growl, promised no mercy—only the inevitable hunger of the wild.