The silence of the clearing was shattered by the pounding boots and alarmed shouts of the arriving guards. Ye Chen was already a shadow among deeper shadows, the rough bark of an ancient oak against his back, the frantic energy of the compound guards a stark contrast to the icy stillness settling within him. He watched through a screen of withered ivy as they stumbled upon the scene: the massive, grotesque corpse of the Razorback, the weeping girls clinging to each other, the terrible stillness of the old kitchen hand.
"By the ancestors! What *is* that thing?" one guard rasped, prodding the boar's unnatural hide with the butt of his spear, recoiling as a string of viscous, dark slime stretched from the metal tip.
"Tainted," another muttered, a superstitious dread colouring his voice. "Smells of the deep woods… the *rotten* parts."
Their eyes darted nervously towards the girls. "You! What happened? Who killed it?"
The girl still clutching the broken broom handle pointed a trembling finger towards the undergrowth where Ye Chen had vanished. "H-him! The… the one from the storehouse! Ye Chen! He just… he just *touched* it! And it fell!" Her voice was high-pitched with shock, the explanation sounding ludicrous even to her own ears.
"Ye Chen?" The first guard scoffed, disbelief warring with the evidence before him. "The waste of space? Don't be daft, girl! Must've been a passing hunter, or maybe it just dropped dead…"
But the other guard, older, grizzled, knelt beside the boar's massive head. His calloused fingers traced the precise, brutal indentation just below the jawbone. The skin was split, the underlying bone shattered in a way that spoke of impossible, concentrated force. Not a blade. Not a club. Almost like… a single, devastating strike. He looked towards the dense thicket, his eyes narrowed, thoughtful, the dismissive sneer fading from his weathered face. The impossible display at the training ground earlier that day suddenly didn't seem quite so impossible anymore. He said nothing, merely exchanged a grim, unreadable look with his companion.
Ye Chen turned away. Their confusion, their disbelief, was irrelevant noise. The icy pulse of the jade against his chest had subsided to a low, steady thrum, leaving behind that same hollow satiation, a chilling void where exertion should have resided. He felt the lingering sting in his knuckles, but when he flexed his hand, a faint shimmer, like heat haze off stone in winter, briefly misted the air. The jade's touch was becoming more than just a conduit; it was altering the very nature of the power it fed him.
He slipped back into the storehouse through the rotten planking, the familiar scent of dust and decay now overlaid with the phantom musk of the tainted boar and the metallic tang of blood. The heavy silence inside was a relief. He barred the makeshift entrance, plunging the space into near darkness save for the persistent shaft of light.
He didn't light a lamp. He moved to the chest, not for the jade, but for the chipped water jug. The thin film of ice had thickened, glistening coldly. He broke the crust with a finger, the water beneath bitingly frigid. He splashed it on his face, the shock momentarily grounding him, washing away the grime, if not the memory of the boar's feral eyes or the spreading bloodstain on the old man's apron. *Pointless.* The word echoed coldly. A waste. Fuel for the hungry thing he carried.
A hesitant, almost inaudible scratching sounded at the storehouse's main door. Not the heavy knock of guards or elders. Something small, timid.
Ye Chen froze, senses instantly alert. The jade pulsed once, a soft, inquisitive chill. He moved silently to the door, pressing his ear against the rough wood.
"P-please, Young Master Chen?" A young girl's voice, barely a whisper, thick with residual tears and fear. It was one of the scullery maids from the clearing.
He remained still, silent. What could she possibly want? Gratitude? He had none to give. Comfort? He was an empty vessel filled with ice and vengeance.
"I… I brought this," the whisper trembled. A faint rustle, like cloth against wood. "For your hand. Old Man Li… he always said comfrey paste helps with bruising… before…" Her voice choked off.
Ye Chen stared at the grain of the wood inches from his eyes. Old Man Li. The kitchen hand. The one who'd died pointlessly. He remembered the old man vaguely – a silent, perpetually stooped figure who'd sometimes left slightly less stale bread near the storehouse door during Ye Chen's worst days, never meeting his eyes, never speaking. A small, unnoticed kindness in a world of scorn.
He didn't open the door. He didn't speak. He simply stood there, a statue in the gloom. After a long, agonized moment, he heard another soft rustle, then the light, retreating patter of bare feet on the packed earth outside. Gone.
He waited until the silence was absolute again. Then, slowly, he unbarred the heavy door and opened it just wide enough. Sitting on the worn stone step was a small, folded square of clean, if coarse, linen. Nestled inside was a dollop of pungent green paste. Comfrey.
He stared at it. The simple offering felt alien, absurd amidst the darkness gathering within him and around him. An ember of warmth tried to ignite somewhere deep beneath the ice, fragile and unwelcome. He almost kicked it aside. Gratitude was a weakness. Connection was a vulnerability. The path ahead was solitary, paved with retribution and stalked by tainted beasts and ancient hungers.
Yet… he bent down. His fingers, still faintly chilled, closed around the linen bundle. The smell of the comfrey was earthy, alive. He brought it inside, closing the door softly against the encroaching twilight. He didn't use the paste. He placed the bundle carefully on top of the closed chest, next to the icy water jug. A tiny island of unintended humanity in his Spartan cell of resentment.
He sat on the worn mat, the jade's cold presence a familiar counterpoint to the strange disquiet the maid's gesture had provoked. He focused inward, not on the raging power, but on the subtle, insidious changes the jade was weaving. The unnatural cold in his limbs, the lack of fatigue after exertion, the way the energy felt less like cultivated Qi and more like… borrowed winter. The pendant seemed heavier in his inner pocket, its silence more profound, more watchful.
A heavier knock, authoritative and impatient, suddenly rattled the main door. Not a timid scratch this time. Ye Chen's eyes snapped open, the brief disquiet hardening instantly into cold readiness. The grizzled guard's face, perhaps. Or worse.
"Ye Chen!" The voice was rough, familiar. Lin Kuo, the head of the compound guard detail. A practical man, loyal to the family structure, not particularly cruel to Ye Chen in the past, merely indifferent. "Open up. Need a word."
Ye Chen rose smoothly, the comfrey bundle momentarily forgotten. He slid the bar back and opened the door just enough to see Lin Kuo's weathered face illuminated by the torch held by another guard behind him. Lin Kuo's eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned Ye Chen quickly, lingering for a fraction of a second on his worn tunic, perhaps searching for bloodstains or tears. He saw only the faded fabric and the impassive face.
"What happened?" Ye Chen asked flatly, preempting the question. His voice gave nothing away.
Lin Kuo grunted. "Trouble near the refuse pit. Tainted Razorback. Killed Old Li. Scared the wits out of two girls." His gaze sharpened, boring into Ye Chen's. "One of the girls claims you dealt with it. Single blow." He stated it as fact, his tone devoid of the earlier scoffing disbelief of his subordinate, replaced by a watchful neutrality.
Ye Chen met his gaze unflinchingly. "It charged. I moved. It died." He offered no embellishment, no explanation for the impossible force implied. Let them chew on the bones of the truth.
Lin Kuo held his stare for a long moment. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions. The torchlight flickered, casting dancing shadows. Finally, Lin Kuo gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. Not acceptance, but acknowledgment. He'd seen the boar, seen the wound. He'd also heard the rumours from the training ground.
"Tainted beasts," Lin Kuo said, shifting the subject slightly, his voice low and grim. "Been whispers for weeks. Deeper in the woods than they ought to be. Acting strange. Vicious." He spat onto the ground. "This is the first time one's breached the outer walls. Bad omen."
He paused, his eyes still fixed on Ye Chen. "The beast's carcass… it's unnatural. Stinks of something foul. We're burning it tonight, deep pit, quicklime. Don't need that corruption spreading." He hesitated, then added, a note of reluctant warning entering his voice, "The Elders… they'll hear about this. About the beast, about Old Li… and about *who* the girls named." He didn't say it as a threat, more as a statement of inevitable consequence. "Watch your back, lad. Things are stirring. Darker things than family squabbles."
Lin Kuo turned abruptly, gesturing to the other guard. "Seal this area. Burn detail. Now." He strode away without another word, leaving Ye Chen standing in the doorway, the torchlight receding into the deepening dusk.
Ye Chen closed the door, the bar thudding back into place. Lin Kuo's words echoed: *Tainted beasts. Corruption. Darker things.* The icy pulse of the jade against his chest gave a slow, deliberate throb, like the beat of a war drum deep beneath frozen earth. It didn't feel like fear emanating from the stone. It felt like… recognition. Like the stirring of something ancient and cold awakening to a familiar scent on the wind.
He looked at the small linen bundle on the chest. Old Li's quiet kindness, the maid's fearful gratitude – flickers of light in a world rapidly descending into shadow. But the shadows were deepening, twisting, reaching beyond the petty grievances of the Ye family. The jade's hunger, the tainted beast, Lin Kuo's grim warning – they were threads weaving a larger, darker tapestry. His vengeance was personal, a fire he would stoke. But the storm brewing on the horizon felt vast, ancient, and intimately tied to the glacial heart beating against his own. The tournament was merely the opening gambit. The true game, it seemed, was played on a board stained with far older blood.