Han Yu left the shop with renewed determination.
The mont he returned to Twin Leaf Peak Sect, he’d comb through every restricted corner of the Skill Pavilion. He’d bribe, beg, or sneak his way into the archive if needed. If Lin Shao Deng had left behind even a sliver more of his strange soul-based techniques, Han Yu would find it.
And if not... well, he still had the first book. The foundation.
He patted the cover affectionately.
"Don’t worry, Master Poke-Finger," Han Yu muttered under his breath. "Your arts won’t be forgotten. I’ll revive them myself if I have to."
A gust of wind rustled his robe as he turned the corner, already making ntal plans.
One: Find more soul qi techniques.
Two: Discover how to safely integrate poisons into the Soul Stinging Needle technique without dying horribly.
Three: Absolutely never let Li i find out about any of this... unless he was prepared to spend a week as a human pincushion.
Han Yu whistled a happy tune as he wandered off, the day bright and the road ahead full of poking potential.
Han Yu’s cheerful stroll ca to a sudden halt as a stream of disciples in pale gray and dark green robes swept down the street ahead of him, their formation tight and disciplined, their expressions focused.
He narrowed his eyes and ducked slightly behind a street vendor’s fruit cart, pretending to admire a pile of wilted spirit peaches.
"Wait a second..."
His gaze followed the group as they erged from a massive building, its whitewashed stone facade etched with elegant cloud patterns. A heavy, polished sign hung over the wide entryway:
"Mist Eye Sect – Wujing City Branch."
Han Yu nearly choked on the stale peach he’d picked up.
"I walked all the way into the Western District?" he muttered, groaning inwardly. "Damn it, I got too into book-hunting again."
Of course. He’d been hopping from one dusty shop to the next, chasing down half-lost tales about the Needle Finger Alchemist.
Sowhere between reading a questionable poem about qi-infused radishes and bargaining over a bootlegged biography, he’d completely lost track of which district he was in.
And now, he was smack dab in Mist Eye Sect territory.
He was just about to backpedal, nice and slow, when his eyes caught a familiar face amidst the flow of gray-robed disciples.
A tall woman with high cheekbones, short black hair, and a scar running down her neck.
Han Yu froze.
"Oh no..." he whispered.
He recognized her instantly.
She had been there, back near the Broken Fang Ravine—a place soaked in blood and smoke and shattered bones. She was one of the two Mist Eye Sect disciples who had survived that ambush. Han Yu, alongside Fatty Kui Number One and Wu Shuan, had fought tooth and nail to escape the trap those Mist Eye disciples had laid for them.
And now, here she was—alive, well, and walking with a subtle limp that hadn’t been there before.
Han Yu instinctively pulled the hood of his cloak up, tucking his hair in and turning away as much as possible.
"Why is she here? What’s she doing?"
He ducked into the alley between a tailor’s shop and a noodle stall, eyes peering through the gaps in a wooden fence like so kind of gossiping grandmother.
The woman didn’t seem to be hunting anyone, but she walked with authority. The way the other disciples made room for her suggested a rise in status. Maybe not a core disciple, but definitely soone people noticed.
A surge of emotion welled in Han Yu’s chest. It wasn’t exactly rage—but it wasn’t far off either. Revenge, maybe? Annoyance? A twinge of unfinished business?
He didn’t hate her... but he hadn’t forgotten either.
She and her sect had tried to kill him and his friends. He still rembered the gurgle of dying disciples, the blood spraying across the stones, and Fatty Kui smashing a Mist Eye cultivator’s skull with his fists like a drumstick on tofu.
Han Yu’s fingers twitched. His soul qi stirred faintly, dancing along his fingertips with the residual mory of the Soul Stinging Finger technique.
He could leave. Right now. No risk.
But sothing held him in place.
Maybe it was curiosity.
Maybe it was caution.
Or maybe it was the nagging sense that if the Mist Eye Sect was making public moves here in Wujing City, then there was more going on than just routine sect business.
And the fact that she was here—one of the survivors—ant sothing.
Han Yu narrowed his eyes and backed further into the alley. He’d follow her for a bit. Just to see what she was doing. He wasn’t going to fight. Not unless she noticed him first. And even then, he had that chicken still. Maybe he could throw it and run.
"Alright, mystery lady," he muttered, slipping through the alley with practiced stealth. "Let’s see what the Mist Eye Sect is really up to..."
With his hood tight and cloak billowing gently behind him, Han Yu began tailing the woman from a distance, lting into the shadows and crowd like a cat stalking a threadbare mouse.
He had no idea what he’d uncover.
But he definitely wasn’t going to get lost book-hunting again today.
Han Yu trailed the woman silently, weaving through the Western District’s bustling streets with practiced ease.
The robes she wore fluttered slightly with each graceful step, embroidered with the flowing insignia of the Mist Eye Sect—elegant, cloudlike symbols that looked deceptively harmless.
Several passing disciples offered respectful nods as she passed, their voices crisp.
"Senior Sister ng."
"Greetings, Senior Sister ng."
The mont he heard the na, Han Yu’s mory jolted. That was definitely her. ng. The sa woman who had ambushed him and his group during their mission to the Broken Fang Ravine.
Back then, she had led a band of Mist Eye Sect disciples, attacking under the cover of their illusion arts. But they had underestimated the fury and ferocity of Han Yu, Fatty Kui Number One, and Wu Shuan.
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