Of Hunters and Immortals

"So if you don't want me dead, what do you want from me?"

The bandit leader's question hung in the air for a moment as Jiang tried to decide how he wanted to handle this. His only real experience interrogating someone was with Liang Shen, and that man was enough of a coward that he'd started babbling as soon as Jiang had revealed himself as a cultivator.

He somewhat doubted this man was going to do the same.

"Information," he said finally. Best to just be blunt and figure things out as he went – it had worked for him so far. "A village called Liǔxī was raided a few months back, just before the first snows. The bandits called themselves the Hollow Fangs and took most of the people as slaves. I want to know where these people were sold."

The man's scarred brow furrowed, not in fear, but in genuine confusion. "Liǔxī? Never heard of it." He let out a harsh, smoky laugh. "We were busy hitting merchant caravans on the southern pass that time of year. Richer pickings."

Jiang's gaze narrowed. He remembered how Elder Yan had known he was lying about his age with just a glance, how Elder Lu had warned him that powerful cultivators could detect falsehoods. He had no idea how the technique worked – if it even was a technique at all – but hopefully the Pact would help him figure it out.

He focused, stretching his Qi senses towards the bandit, searching for some waver in the man's own energy, some tell-tale distortion that would scream 'lie'. Mortals didn't have much Qi, but every living being had some – and he already knew that Qi could react to mood. It was a logical assumption that he could learn to 'read' someone's Qi and find out if they were lying.

Unfortunately, this time his assumptions didn't work out. Ever since forming the Pact, when using his other techniques he got a sort of vague feeling, an instinct that he couldn't quite name guiding him in shaping the Qi. This time, however, there was nothing. That didn't necessarily mean he was on the wrong track – he didn't know the limits of the Pact, or even really how it worked yet – but it did mean he wasn't likely to figure it out in a timely manner.

Which meant he simply had to take this bandit's words at face value. What could possibly go wrong with that?

"Who else, then?" Jiang pressed. "Who has the numbers for a job that big?"

The leader was quiet for a long moment, staring up at the smoke-filled sky. "The Dead River Gang, maybe," he said finally, his voice a low rasp. "They're animals. Vicious. But even they don't usually take whole villages. Besides them…" he shrugged. "I wouldn't know. We're thieves, not slavers. Never wanted to get involved in that side of things; too messy, too many mouths to feed or sell. Brings too much attention from cultivators – better to keep things small."

The man spat to one side. "Fat lot of good that did us, in the end," he said bitterly.

For some reason, Jiang found that infuriating.

"What, so you think you're better, somehow?" he snapped, shadow twisting fitfully by his feet. "That just because you don't sell people, no one gets hurt? That you deserve to be left alone, when you do nothing but take from those who worked hard for what they have?"

The leader eyed Jiang's shadow warily, but it wasn't enough to stop him from scoffing. "Gods, but you're young, aren't you? Can never tell with you cultivators – growing old is for us mere mortals – but you're actually young."

"Old enough to kill you," Jiang said dangerously.

The leader outright laughed. "You think I'm scared of death, boy? I was a soldier once, you know. Fought for the magistrate in the western border skirmishes. Watched boys younger than you get cut down over some patch of dirt no one would remember the name of a week later. They call it honour, but it's just meat for the grinder. When they stopped sending pay, when they left us to starve in a winter just like this one… I walked away. What was I supposed to do? Go home? They'd have hanged me as a deserter."

"So you started targeting innocent people?" Jiang shot back, but some of the venom had left his tone.

"So I took what I felt was owed," the man corrected, a grimace twisting his features. "Started with a supply caravan. Just took some food, some coin. Enough to get by. But then other deserters, other desperate men, they start to gather. One mouth to feed turns into five, then ten. Soon, you're not just taking what you're owed. You're taking what you need. Then you're taking what you want. It's a short road from there to… this." He gestured vaguely at the carnage around them. He looked back at Jiang, a strange clarity in his eyes. "You kill enough, and you forget why you started. You just become the monster everyone already thinks you are."

Jiang didn't answer right away. The man's tone wasn't pleading – there was no bid for pity in his voice, no self-excusing veneer.

That made it worse somehow.

He thought of himself, not even a month ago, watching Kaelen bleed out and wondering if killing him had been the right choice. Tonight, he'd cut down fifteen men without a flicker of hesitation. It had been… easy.

He pushed the thought away. "Tell me more about the Dead River Gang."

The leader's eyes narrowed slightly, as if gauging whether this was a change of subject or a probe. "Brutes. Not as many as they like people to think, but mean enough to make up for it. They like to work the southern marshes – good place to lose someone you don't want found."

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"And the slave trade?"

A faint shrug. "Don't know the nuts and bolts. But I know it's not small. You don't move whole villages without a lot of hands in the pie – bandits, smugglers, fence-masters, crooked merchants. Plenty of folk don't touch it directly, but they profit from it anyway. The real powers in Qinghe – cultivators, magistrates, merchants – they might not all be involved, but they could find out if they wanted to." His gaze hardened. "Most don't. Ugly things do best in the dark."

Jiang absorbed that in silence. It made a certain ugly kind of sense.

"And the Hollow Fangs?"

That drew a snort. "'Fraid you're barking up the wrong tree there – the Hollow Fangs technically don't exist."

"I know that," Jiang said irritably. "Bandit gangs just use the name to inspire fear. I want to know which gangs use the name most often, how it works. How to track down who was involved in the raid."

"Heh, you don't know everything, kid. Gangs grouping up use the name when they want to scare folk without pointing fingers at themselves. That part's true." He leaned forward slightly. "But that's not all there is to it. See, the name should rightfully be Hollow Fang. The gang only has one person, and it's only ever when raiding with him that you get to use the name. Otherwise…" the man shivered theatrically. "Well, it's the kind of mistake people only make once, if you get my drift."

"And who's this 'fang', then?" Jiang asked, feeling like he already knew the answer.

"Gao Leng," was the simple reply. "He's the reason the name carries weight. Word is he was part of the Azure Sky Sect – used to be a disciple, but he bolted years back. Now he turns up whenever the big gangs work together. Uses them for something. Don't know what. But if you start kicking over the right rocks, you might get his attention."

Jiang filed the name away, his mind already working through the implications.

The leader smirked, faintly mocking. "If you're set on chasing that trail, you'd better be ready for worse than a few drunk thieves with rusty swords."

Jiang let the silence stretch after that. The questions were done, but now came the harder part. The man sat there in the snow, weapon surrendered, the firelight catching the lines of smoke and exhaustion on his face.

He was a bandit. He'd hurt people. Killed them – if not directly, then by stealing what they needed to survive. But he'd also cooperated – more than Jiang had expected – and killing him now wouldn't bring Jiang any closer to his family. But leaving him alive might mean the same fight, somewhere else, for someone who couldn't win it.

He hated that there wasn't a clean answer.

The world he'd grown up in was simple: you killed a wolf because it was a threat, you killed a deer because your family needed to eat. Every action had a clear, immediate purpose. But this… this was different. Killing him would be a service, a small measure of justice for all the victims he'd left in his wake.

But the man's story, as self-serving as it may have been, had lodged in his mind like a splinter.

You just become the monster everyone already thinks you are. Jiang thought of Kaelen, the satisfaction of that kill born from the heat of battle and the immediate threat to the caravan. He thought of Huo Jin, an execution carried out for a clear price, a necessary step to get the information he needed. This felt like neither. The fight was over. The information was given. To kill this man now would be an act of vengeance for crimes not committed against him, a step onto a path that had nothing to do with finding his family.

His primary goal had not changed. Every action had to serve that purpose. And killing this broken man, here and now, would not get him any closer to his family. There would undoubtedly be some that decried his choice, he knew that. The families of the victims of this man would not hesitate if they were in his position.

But if they wanted vengeance, they could get it themselves. He wasn't willing to further stain his soul chasing a nebulous concept like justice for others.

He lowered his bow, slipped the nocked arrow he'd been holding ready back into his quiver. The bandit leader's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of disbelief cutting through his resignation.

Jiang crouched down, retrieving the man's fallen sword from the snow. He tested its weight, then looked back at the bandit. "If I see you again," Jiang said slowly, "I will kill you. If I pass through this area again, and hear people speaking of you, I will hunt you down and kill you."

"I… I'm not foolish enough to argue against mercy," the man said, clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop. "I'll… I'll change my ways, I swear to you, cultivator. Not about to waste a second chance like this."

Jiang pulled on his stealth technique, flaring his Qi and turning away without another word, dropping the sword at his feet as he went. The odds of the man sticking to the promise were slim at best, he knew that. He hadn't been lying, either – if he passed back through this area, or ever ran into the man playing bandit again, he would hunt the man down.

Maybe that made him a hypocrite, to ignore the man's past and let him off while still intending to kill the bandits who'd taken his family. Maybe he was doing the wrong thing – it certainly didn't feel like a satisfying solution.

But at the end of the day, Jiang felt it was the only choice he could live with. To make himself the arbiter of justice, judging and executing people based solely on his own values… felt like a darker path than he wanted to travel.

Time would tell if he'd just made a mistake.

— — —

The boy was gone.

Hu Sen sat where the cultivator had left him, the cold seeping through his boots. He kept half-expecting to see an arrow sprout from his chest, or to feel a blade slip between his ribs, but the minutes dragged on and nothing happened. Eventually, he had to accept the truth – he was still breathing.

Around him, the camp was a ruin. The bodies of his crew lay scattered, cooling in the snow. Some he'd never liked – loud-mouthed, greedy bastards – but others… others had been like him once. Down on their luck. Trying to find a way to keep living when the world didn't care if you starved.

Why had they died when he'd lived?

He didn't know.

He pulled himself to his feet, looking around the remains of his camp. He… didn't quite know what to do next. After a moment, and with nothing else coming to mind, he shrugged and started digging a series of graves. Something about the action felt… right. Like he was laying more than just the bodies to rest.

As he worked, he wondered when exactly he'd changed. When he'd gone from a soldier holding the line to a man raiding the same villages he once swore to defend. There hadn't been a moment, he realised. Just small choices, each one easier than the last.

Hours passed before the last grave was filled. He stood over them, breathing hard, the shovel leaning against his shoulder.

That was when he heard the footsteps.

He turned.

A man stood a few paces away, dressed in fine dark robes that marked him as someone far above a roadside brigand. A small flame hovered lazily above one open palm, casting flickering light across a sharp, watchful face.

Hu Sen sighed. "Figures," he said. "The heavens don't hand out second chances. Not really."

The newcomer's eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm looking for a young cultivator. Dark hair, travels light. Carries a bow."

Hu Sen shrugged, but it felt heavier than it should have. "Can't say for sure. Maybe I saw someone like that. Maybe I didn't."

The wind whistled low through the camp's wreckage. The flame flared once, twice – then surged.

Hu Sen didn't bother reaching for his sword.