They kept moving until the ruin smoke thinned behind them and the wind smelled like pine again.
Even then, nobody relaxed.
Sun Jiao led them into a narrow cleft where two rock faces leaned close, forcing them to walk single file. It wasn't comfortable. It wasn't fast. It was hard to ambush and hard to surround.
That was the point.
Ma Qiao went first, knife in his good hand, swollen wrist wrapped tight in cloth. Qin Sui followed, spear held low so it wouldn't scrape stone. Liang Zhi stayed in the middle, eyes wide, breathing too loud. Wuchen kept behind him, close enough that if Liang Zhi panicked and bolted, Wuchen could grab him before he dragged noise into the night. Sun Jiao walked last, watching their backtrail like a man counting debts.
They stopped only when the sky went fully black and the moon slid behind cloud.
Sun Jiao chose a camp that wasn't a camp: a slanted rock shelf with thorn brush on one side and a drop on the other. No fire. No talking. Sleep in turns.
Qin Sui took watch.
Wuchen lay with his cheek against cold stone and listened. Smoke still lived in his nose like a memory. He kept seeing the thin man's smile and hearing his words: stay alive.
Not mercy.
Ownership.
Somewhere in the mountain, the thin man was headed toward Sun Jiao's "east ridge cut."
A lie.
A wide lie.
And lies in Beast Tide Season didn't disappear. They wandered until they found a throat.
Wuchen dozed, woke, dozed again.
Near the middle of the night, the wind shifted.
Not smell this time.
Sound.
A far-off shout, then another. Metal striking metal, distant but sharp. Then a long, thin scream that faded into the trees.
Liang Zhi's body jerked in his sleep.
Ma Qiao's eyes opened instantly.
Sun Jiao sat up, listening without moving.
Qin Sui's spear tip lifted toward the dark.
Wuchen stayed still, but his stomach tightened.
That wasn't beasts.
That was people.
And it came from the direction Sun Jiao had pointed.
The thin man had run into someone else.
Or he had found nothing and decided to take his anger out on the first warm bodies he met.
Either way, the debt of that lie was being paid somewhere.
Sun Jiao whispered, barely audible, "Don't move."
They didn't.
Minutes passed. The distant sound died. The mountain swallowed it.
Wuchen let his breath out slowly.
When his watch came, he rose and stood at the edge of the shelf, eyes scanning shadow. He didn't see eyeshine. He didn't hear paws.
He did hear something else after a while.
A soft scraping sound down the slope.
Like someone climbing, slow and careful.
Wuchen's fingers tightened on a stone he'd picked up as a simple weapon. He didn't wake the others yet. Waking them too early made panic.
The scraping grew closer.
Then a shape emerged from the brush below.
A person.
One person.
Barely walking.
Wuchen tensed.
The figure stumbled into moonlight and Wuchen saw the torn robe, the ash-smudged face, the shaking hands.
The injured runner from earlier.
He was alone now.
He looked like he'd been dragged through rocks.
His eyes found Wuchen and he fell to his knees, gasping silently.
Wuchen's heart tightened.
He should have run. He should have gone the other direction. He should have disappeared.
But he came here.
That meant he had nowhere else.
Wuchen whispered, "Stay quiet."
The runner nodded frantically, tears sliding down ash-streaked cheeks.
Sun Jiao woke anyway. He saw the runner and his face tightened. "Why are you here?" he whispered.
The runner's lips trembled. He barely made sound. "They… fought," he mouthed. "The thin man… he met another team. They argued about direction. Someone died. Then… then he came back."
Wuchen's stomach dropped.
Sun Jiao's eyes narrowed. "He came back where?"
The runner's eyes flicked toward Wuchen. "He asked," he mouthed. "He asked for the boy. He said the boy lied. He said he smelled it."
Wuchen felt cold slide down his spine.
Smelled it.
Not the direction.
Him.
Because Wuchen had acted fear.
The thin man had read it, then used it as proof.
Sun Jiao's jaw clenched. "How far?" he whispered.
The runner shook. "He… he didn't chase me," he mouthed. "He said… he said let the mountain chase."
Wuchen's throat tightened.
That meant the thin man had done something else.
Something that didn't need pursuit.
Something that could walk on its own.
Ma Qiao woke, eyes sharp. Qin Sui rose, spear ready.
Liang Zhi sat up shaking, eyes huge. "What—" he whispered.
Sun Jiao cut him off with a glare.
The runner's voice finally found a thread of sound. "He… he smeared something," he whispered. "On the trail. Something sweet. Like rotten fruit. He said beasts would follow the smell."
Bait.
Not meat.
Scent bait.
Wuchen's skin prickled. He remembered Gu Yan's lessons: stink tells stories.
The thin man had turned their lie into a story for beasts.
Sun Jiao's voice went cold. "He marked us," he said.
Qin Sui's eyes narrowed. "Can we wash it off?"
Ma Qiao shook his head. "If it's scent resin, it sticks," he muttered. "It clings to boots. It clings to cloth. You can scrape, but wind carries."
Wuchen's mind moved fast.
If beasts were pulled toward them, staying still was death.
If they ran, they might outrun the beasts… or run into another team… or run into the ruin smoke again.
Sun Jiao stared into the dark, jaw working.
Then he spoke quietly. "We move now," he said. "No packs left. No arguing."
Liang Zhi nodded frantically.
Ma Qiao grabbed his knife. Qin Sui tightened her grip on her spear.
Sun Jiao looked at the injured runner. "You," he said. "Can you walk?"
The runner nodded, shaking.
Sun Jiao's eyes were cold. "Then you walk with us," he said. "If you fall, we don't carry."
The runner swallowed and nodded again.
They moved off the shelf into the night, single file, stepping fast but carefully.
Wuchen stayed near the middle again, listening hard.
At first there was only wind.
Then, after a hundred breaths, he heard it.
A distant snuffling.
Low.
Wet.
Not boar.
Something with a broader nose and heavier lungs.
Then another sound.
Claws on stone.
Wuchen's stomach tightened.
They had been scented.
Beasts were coming.
And the thin man wasn't chasing them with legs.
He was chasing them with hunger.
Smoke debt.
That was what their lie had bought.
Now the mountain was collecting it.