Of Hunters and Immortals

Being an outer disciple, Jiang had found, was much like being an aspirant.

There were some differences, of course – he was rapidly coming to love having his own private quarters, for example – but broadly speaking, it was much the same. He woke up at the same time. He went to the same place for breakfast. The same people ignored him.

Admittedly, the morning lessons were new, or, at least, his attendance of them was. If it weren't for the constant nagging sensation that time was slipping away, he probably would have found them fascinating. They were a look into a world that he had never expected to live in, and despite the fact that they were only ever an hour or so long, he'd already learned so much about the wider world than he'd thought possible – even if it were all through the lens of a cultivator.

He usually took most of the lessons with a grain of salt. Cultivators, he'd found, seemed to love being dramatic about absolutely everything. It couldn't so much as start raining without someone calling it 'the will of the Heavens' or something. Now, granted, Jiang didn't exactly have a lot of experience with stuff like this, but he was reasonably sure that Elder Tao was exaggerating when he talked about how some insults would result in 'seven generations' of the offender's family being killed.

If nothing else, because if every insult resulted in a family line being exterminated, there would be nobody left.

Still, at the core of every story was a grain of truth and all that, so he made sure to at least pay attention – if only so he could roughly judge how severely he insulted people when he inevitably did. If he was going to piss someone off, it was better to do it on purpose.

The rest of his time was spent in drills, quiet practice, or menial tasks. Technically, now that he was an outer disciple, he wasn't supposed to be stuck with the servants anymore, so his 'punishment' had been quietly ended. It reflected poorly on the Sect to have one of their own doing grunt work. Instead, he was assigned to assist with lower-priority tasks – running errands between supply points, tagging along with patrols, and helping with the occasional hunting assignment.

Which was how he'd ended up here, tramping through frost-bitten brush with half a dozen other outer disciples who were all probably hoping a spirit beast would carry him off.

Jiang quirked his lips in amusement at the thought, catching a glimpse of his feathery stalker fluttering between branches above his head. The only spirit beast he'd ever interacted with clearly had an interest in him, but he doubted it was going to carry him off.

Well, it probably wouldn't, at least. He couldn't entirely dismiss the idea that it was just fattening him up for later consumption or something like that.

Jiang adjusted the bow slung across his shoulder and kept his head down as the group moved up the narrow ridge trail. The worst part about this task was that he wasn't allowed to wear his hunting leathers. Whoever came up with the idea that hunting in fancy robes was a smart move was an idiot.

The others walked in loose pairs, clustered together by some esoteric social hierarchy he had no interest in deciphering. No one had invited him to join a conversation, not that he was particularly eager. He didn't need to overhear much to catch the general tone. They didn't think he should be here. He hadn't earned his place. He wasn't a real cultivator.

In fairness, they weren't entirely wrong. While he had plenty of experience hunting mundane animals, he hadn't ever tried tracking spirit beasts – not to mention that the Sect recommended reaching at least the third stage of the Qi Condensation realm before it was safe to fight spirit beasts. The only reason he was allowed to tag along at all was because Elder Lu had vouched for his skills.

Not that the man had ever actually seen his hunting skills.

But that still made him more useful than some of them. Jiang could tell from the way they moved. Too loud. Too quick. They didn't know how to follow something without being seen. They were cultivators now, and they assumed that made them amazing at everything by default.

At least the inner disciple in charge – some quiet, hawk-eyed woman whose name Jiang hadn't caught – seemed more competent.

That was another thing Jiang had started noticing; the inner disciples were a lot more relaxed. They didn't snap at each other, didn't try to prove how strong they were in every sentence. While he admittedly hadn't interacted with many of them, those he had spoken with hadn't seemed to look down on him for his birth.

The new outer disciples were worse than any braggart Jiang had met in a tavern. Like they still thought someone was going to come tell them they didn't belong. They dressed the part. They shouted their opinions. They challenged each other over minor insults, jostling for some imaginary ranking no one else acknowledged.

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It was tiring.

They pushed deeper into the woods, brush thick around their ankles, frost still clinging to the shaded roots of trees. The trail was faint, half-melted prints marking where something had passed days earlier – obscured enough to make identifying the exact animal difficult, but still visible enough to follow.

It took Jiang longer than he was comfortable admitting to realise what was strange about the tracks – they were too obvious. Animals didn't exactly try to conceal their movements through the forest, but anything that lived in the forest for long enough would learn to move through it without disturbing the surroundings too much. Unless given a reason to, animals followed the path of least resistance, generally in the form of game trails.

These tracks were different. They cut across the slope at a sharp angle, scraping frost from the moss and snapping through undergrowth instead of going around. The spacing between the prints was erratic—tight in one stretch, stretched out in another. Not like a panicked flight, but like something thinking in stuttering starts. Or many things trying to stay close without falling into step.

Strange.

Really, the whole situation was strange. Spirit Beasts tended to avoid civilisation – smart enough to realise that humans could defend themselves. Even his tiny village had only been attacked by a spirit beast once, and they would have made for much easier targets than a Sect full of Cultivators. The spirit beasts they were currently hunting clearly weren't powerful enough to pose a genuine threat, or they would have sent a group of inner disciples instead of the newest and weakest of the outer disciples.

Were the beasts rabid or something? Could spirit beasts even go rabid at all?

Jiang didn't know. He shifted the bow on his shoulder uncomfortably. If he was alone, he would have turned and left by now. Out in the wilds, anything unknown was dangerous, and a hunter who took too many risks always ended up paying with their life. Even worse, the other disciples were making enough noise to rouse the dead. There was no chance of hearing anything coming, or even of paying attention to the usual noises of the forest and using that as a warning.

The raven above cawed once, loudly.

Jiang froze mid-step. The others kept walking.

He reached for his bow, slow and deliberate, slipping it free of the strap across his back and nocking an arrow. He didn't say anything. He wasn't sure they'd listen even if he did. Hell, for all he knew the bird had just wanted to startle him – but then again, ravens often worked with other predators in the wild, guiding them to prey and warning them of danger.

The inner disciple looked back. Her eyes flicked from his posture to the raven, then down to the trail. She didn't draw her blade, but her hand shifted to rest on the hilt. Her gaze sharpened.

But like him, she said nothing.

Jiang absently wondered if this was a test of some kind - something like the inner disciple evaluating how the newer outer disciples acted in a dangerous situation, but quickly discarded the thought to focus more on the forest surrounding him. It didn't matter if this was a test or not – Jiang well knew that a spirit beast could kill in seconds.

He took another slow step, scanning the trees for movement, ears straining for the crunch of brush, the rustle of weight where none should be. His bow creaked faintly under the strain of his grip, the string half-drawn, not quite tight enough to shoot—but close.

Even with all of his experience, the warning from the raven, and actively looking for the spirit beasts, he still didn't see them until they were almost on top of them.

They moved like smoke—low, fast, fur clinging to the ground. Four of them, too lean to be wolves, too solid to be shadows. Their eyes glowed with an unnatural light, and he could feel their malevolent intent in the air. There was no howl. No snarl. Just motion.

Jiang loosed without thinking.

The arrow hit the leading beast square in the chest. A clean, perfect shot. The kind that would drop a deer at full sprint like its strings had been cut.

It stumbled—barely.

Then it surged forward, lips peeled back in silence.

Jiang twisted aside, drawing again, but another beast was already on him. He ducked low, felt the rush of air as claws passed inches from his neck. He rolled hard, shoulder striking a rock, came up on one knee. He fired again.

The second shot buried itself in the beast's shoulder. It snarled this time, thrown off its stride—but it didn't fall. Shouts erupted behind him. Steel hissed free of scabbards. A scream—high, panicked, cut off partway.

The third beast circled wide, trying to flank him.

He didn't have time for a third arrow.

He reached for one anyway, but the limbs of his bow cracked. Wood split under the strain, the string snapped free with a sharp sting across his hand. Jiang stared at the ruined bow, stunned.

That moment cost him. The fourth beast lunged.

He dropped the bow and threw himself backward, landing hard in the frost. Claws missed his chest by a breath. He scrambled back, knees slipping in wet moss, trying to draw his knife—

A flash of light split the air.

A streak of fire slammed into the side of the spirit beast, somehow imparting enough force to lift it from the ground and slam it into a tree.

The beast staggered, ribs caved in. Smoke coiled from its fur.

Another bolt of light screamed past his ear. One of the disciples was standing behind him, hands shaped in a tight mudra, eyes narrowed. Another shouted something, sounding more angry than panicked, and a jet of water burst from his palm, slamming into a second beast.

Jiang could only stare.

He'd seen cultivators move faster than they should. He'd seen them break stone with bare hands. Even at the second stage, he knew he was faster and stronger than any mortal. But this—this was different.

This was magic.

The last spirit beast fell, legs twitching. The others backed away from their kills, panting, blood splattered across their robes.

The inner disciple hadn't moved. Her hand still rested on her hilt, gaze steady, watching.

She hadn't needed to draw.