The morning mist curled off the river's surface as Qingsai guided his narrow wooden boat into the deeper current. Bamboo reeds rustled in rhythm with the wind as his oar dipped silently into the water.
He was alone.
Or rather, he was seeking peace. Ever since the white-masked Seeker visited, his dreams had grown louder. Flashes of fire, blood, and a name not his own—Lianxu—whispered through his thoughts like forgotten prayers.
He cast his net. Waited.
But before the water could even settle, the distant sound of hooves broke the morning's silence.
Qingsai ducked under the shade of low trees, eyes narrowing. Across the ridge, a group of five armed riders galloped down a slope, heading toward the riverbank. Each wore patchwork armor and bore crude weapons—bandits.
But that wasn't what caught Qingsai's breath.
It was the two large cloth sacks slung across the largest rider's horse. As they passed, the sacks shifted—two pairs of small feet, muffled crying.
"Children," Qingsai whispered. "They've taken children."
The boat rocked as he turned it toward the reeds.
He didn't think. He just followed.