The Fringe never truly slept.
Even in the deepest stretch of night, voices murmured, metal clinked, and footsteps scraped over stone with careful intent. Li Yaochen learned this quickly as he lay near the dying fire, eyes closed, breath steady, pretending to be more exhausted than he truly was.
Pretending was safer.
He felt it before he heard it.
A gaze.
Not the familiar, silent pressure inside his chest—that constant, indifferent presence—but something external. Human. Curious. Measuring.
Li Yaochen did not move.
A shadow detached itself from the edge of the firelight. Then another. Low voices followed, too soft to catch words, but close enough that he could smell stale wine and sweat.
"Alive?" one whispered.
"Barely," another replied. "Good."
Li Yaochen waited until a foot nudged his leg.
He groaned and rolled slightly, exposing the bandage on his shoulder, the stiff blood, the tremor in his limbs. He let his breath hitch like it hurt to draw in too much air.
"Don't," a third voice said quietly. "Look at him. Iron River cut."
A pause.
That name carried weight even here.
"Tch. Then why's he here?"
"Ran far. Or was thrown far."
Li Yaochen forced a weak cough. His eyes fluttered open just enough to show whites dulled with fatigue.
"I don't have anything," he rasped. "Already sold… whatever I could."
That part wasn't entirely a lie.
The figures hesitated. He felt their attention slide over him, reassessing, recalculating risk against reward.
Finally, a grunt. "Leave him. Not worth the trouble."
Footsteps retreated.
Only when the sounds blended back into the Fringe did Li Yaochen allow himself to exhale fully.
Alive again, he thought without relief.
The pressure in his chest remained unchanged.
---
Morning came harsh and bright.
Li Yaochen woke with every muscle screaming, the temporary strength from the vial completely gone. He forced himself upright anyway. People who lay down too long here were either claimed or collected.
He returned to the tunnel.
The collapse smelled of damp stone and old dust. A few others were already working—men and women with scarred hands and wary eyes, none strong enough to draw attention, none weak enough to be discarded outright.
No one spoke much.
Li Yaochen took a rusted pry bar and joined them, wedging it beneath broken rock and leaning his weight into it. Pain flared, white-hot and blinding. He ground his teeth and pushed harder.
If I stop, he thought, I won't start again.
Stone shifted. A slab cracked loose and fell aside with a dull thud. Someone cursed. Another laughed.
Hours passed in that rhythm—lift, brace, endure.
Then the pressure in his chest shifted.
Sharper.
Closer.
Li Yaochen froze.
The others hadn't noticed yet. Dust drifted lazily from the ceiling. The air felt wrong—too still, too heavy.
"Back," he said suddenly. "Everyone, back."
A woman scoffed. "You giving orders now?"
The stone above them creaked.
Li Yaochen didn't argue.
He dropped the pry bar and staggered backward just as the ceiling collapsed with a roar. Rock and dust slammed down where he had been standing moments before. The shockwave threw him off his feet, breath tearing from his lungs.
Silence followed.
Then screams.
Li Yaochen lay sprawled on the ground, ears ringing, chest heaving. His leg throbbed violently. Dust coated his mouth and eyes.
Around him, chaos reigned.
Two workers were buried up to their waists, shouting in panic. Another lay unmoving beneath rubble. Blood stained the stone in dark, spreading patterns.
Someone grabbed Li Yaochen's collar and hauled him upright.
"You knew!" a man snarled, eyes wild. "You knew it was coming!"
Li Yaochen shook his head weakly. "I felt something wrong. That's all."
A lie.
Not a complete one.
The man stared at him, suspicion warring with fear. Then another voice cut in, harsh and commanding.
"That's enough."
A new figure stood at the edge of the collapse.
He wore clean robes—too clean for the Fringe—and a thin smile that never reached his eyes. Spiritual energy curled faintly around him, restrained but unmistakable.
A cultivator.
"Accidents happen," the man said mildly. "Especially when mortals dig where they shouldn't."
His gaze lingered on Li Yaochen for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Something inside Li Yaochen went very still.
"You," the cultivator said, pointing. "What's your name?"
Li Yaochen's mouth felt dry.
Names had weight.
But refusing carried more.
"…Li," he said carefully. "Li Yaochen."
The man nodded slowly, as if filing it away. "You're lucky. A step slower and you'd be paste."
Li Yaochen forced a thin smile. "I've been lucky lately."
The cultivator chuckled softly. "Luck is expensive."
He turned and walked away, already losing interest.
But Li Yaochen felt it then—an unmistakable sensation, cold and crawling.
He had been noticed.
Not by the heavens.
By something much closer.
That night, as he lay awake with pain gnawing at his bones, Li Yaochen stared at the dark sky above the Fringe.
The pressure in his chest was tighter than it had ever been.
Alert.
Waiting.
And for the first time since surviving the blade, Li Yaochen felt something dangerously close to dread.
Because hunger could be endured.
Pain could be endured.
But attention—
Attention was what killed people like him.