Chapter 163: Run Toward the Sunrise

The jungle held its breath.

Bai Yue knelt in the grass with her ear pressed to Han Shān’s chest, and the world narrowed to a single point: the absence of a heartbeat.

No. No, no, no.

She pressed harder, as if sheer force of will could restart the frozen organ beneath his ribs. His skin was cold, colder than it should have been, colder than any living creature should be. The black veins had receded from his neck, the antidote had done something, but his chest didn’t rise. His lips were blue.

“Han Shān.” Her voice cracked. “Han Shān, breathe. Please. Please breathe.”

Nothing.

Behind her, Yàn Shū was weeping. Not quietly. Great, heaving sobs that shook his whole body, his glasses lost somewhere in the mud, his scholar’s composure shattered into a thousand pieces. He crawled forward, pressing his fingers to Han Shān’s wrist, searching for a pulse that wasn’t there.

“Don’t,” he begged. “Don’t leave us. Han Shān, please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you. The cubs need you. She needs you. Please.”

Mo Xiao stood frozen, Glimmer still in his arms. The young dragon’s green scales were dull, her breathing shallow, but she was alive. For now. His amber eyes were fixed on Han Shān’s face, and something in them was breaking.

Zhāo Yàn had gone very still. His nine tails hung limp behind him, his crimson eyes wide and dark. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stared at the Snow Leopard who had been his rival, his brother, his family for so many years.

And the cubs—

Zhēn had her hands pressed over her mouth, her amethyst eyes swimming with tears she refused to let fall. Yòu Lín was clinging to Ruì Xuě’s unconscious form, his small body shaking with silent sobs. Tao Zi stood apart, his dark eyes fixed on Bai Yue’s face, watching her fall apart.

“Papa,” Zhēn whispered. “Papa, wake up.”

The jungle was silent.

And then—

Crunch.

A boot on dead leaves.

Bai Yue’s head snapped up.

They emerged from the trees like ghosts. Grunt led them, his massive bear form silhouetted against the pale morning light. Behind him came a dozen more, Sun Bears, jaguar mercenaries, the remnants of Li Hua’s army. Their weapons were drawn. Their eyes were hard.

Grunt stopped at the edge of the clearing.

He looked at the group: the weeping scholar, the frozen Alphas, the cubs huddled together, the unconscious dragon. His gaze lingered on Bai Yue, on the blood on her face, on the dead weight of Han Shān in her arms.

And then he looked at the temple, still smoking in the distance.

“Is Li Hua dead?” he asked.

“The ice has her,” Bai Yue said. “She won’t be getting out.”

Grunt was silent for a moment. Then he nodded slowly.

“Good,” he said.

One of the jaguars behind him shifted, drawing a curved blade. “The contract—”

“The contract is void.” Grunt didn’t turn around. “She’s dead. We’re not getting paid. And honestly?” He looked back at Bai Yue. “I am tired of fighting other people’s wars.”

The jaguar sneered. “Speak for yourself. The Usurper’s treasury is still intact. I’m not leaving empty-handed.”

He stepped forward.

Then another.

And another.

“We want the boy,” a second jaguar said, pointing at Tao Zi. “The heir. Alive or dead.”

“And the dragon,” another added, eyeing Glimmer’s unconscious form. “Dragon scales fetch a fortune on the black market.”

“And the cubs,” a bear rumbled. “The white-furred ones. The fox. All of them.”

Grunt’s jaw tightened. He looked at Bai Yue.

“I can’t stop them,” he said quietly. “Not all of them. There are too many. And my loyalty was to Li Hua. She’s gone. I have no stake in this fight anymore.”

“You have a conscience,” Bai Yue said.

Grunt’s eyes flickered. “A conscience doesn’t fill bellies.”

“Neither does blood money.”

He said nothing.

The mercenaries spread out, circling the group. Zhāo Yàn’s tails began to rise, his crimson eyes darkening. Mo Xiao set Glimmer down carefully and stepped forward, his claws extending. Yàn Shū wiped his eyes and stood, his hands balled into fists.

But they were outnumbered. Exhausted. Wounded.

They couldn’t win this fight.

Bai Yue knew it.

“Run,” she said.

Everyone looked at her.

“Run,” she repeated. “Take the cubs. Take Glimmer. Take Ruì Xuě. Go.”

“Mama—” Zhēn started.

“GO.”

Zhāo Yàn was already moving. He grabbed Ruì Xuě’s limp body, slinging the cub over his shoulder. Mo Xiao lifted Glimmer again, his muscles straining. Yòu Lín grabbed Zhēn’s hand. Hóng Yè pulled Tao Zi close.

“Bai Yue,” Yàn Shū said, his voice cracking. “What about you?”

“I’ll catch up.”

“Bai Yue—”

“GO!”

They ran.

The mercenaries surged forward, but Bai Yue stepped into their path. She didn’t have a weapon. She didn’t have magic. She had nothing but her body and her fury and the desperate, burning need to buy her family time.

The first jaguar lunged.

Something small and fast slammed into his chest, knocking him sideways.

Líng.

The pangolin girl had shifted into her beast form, her scales blazing gold, her claws raking across the jaguar’s face. He screamed, stumbling back, and Líng landed in front of Bai Yue with a snarl.

“Go,” Líng said.

“Líng—”

“GO. I’ll hold them.”

“You can’t—”

“I can.” Her gold eyes were bright, fierce, certain. “I have been guarding these paths for a long time. A few mercenaries won’t be the end of me.”

Bai Yue’s throat tightened. “Líng—”

“Go find your family. Keep them safe.” Líng’s voice softened. “And tell the little dragon….tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t save her wing.”

She charged.

The mercenaries scattered, shouting, swinging their blades. Líng’s tail swept three of them off their feet. Her claws carved furrows in the earth.

But there were too many.

A blade slipped between her scales.

She didn’t stop.

Another blade. Another.

Still she fought.

Bai Yue ran.

~

She caught up to the others at the edge of the river.

They were huddled together on the far bank, exhausted, terrified, watching the trees for pursuers. Zhāo Yàn had Ruì Xuě propped against a rock. Mo Xiao had laid Glimmer in the shallows, trying to cool her burning scales.

“Is she—” Bai Yue started.

“Still breathing,” Mo Xiao said. “Barely.”

Behind them, the jungle erupted.

Not with mercenaries.

With light.

Golden, blinding light that shot up through the canopy like a second sunrise. The ground shook. Birds fled in screaming flocks.

Then silence fell, and the light faded.

The shaking stopped.

And Líng did not emerge from the trees.

Bai Yue stared at the place where the light had been. Her chest ached. Her eyes burned.

“She’s gone,” Zhēn whispered.

No one answered.

Because there was nothing more to say.

They moved.

They had to move. The mercenaries might still be coming. The temple might still be collapsing. The jungle was not safe.

But moving was hard when your legs wouldn’t cooperate. When your lungs felt full of glass. When every step was a war against the weight of grief.

Mo Xiao carried Glimmer. Zhāo Yàn carried Ruì Xuě. Yàn Shū walked beside them, his hand pressed against Han Shān’s chest, checking for a pulse he knew he wouldn’t find.

Bai Yue walked at the front, her eyes fixed forward, her face blank. She had to keep going, she had to.

Zhēn held her hand.

Tao Zi walked on her other side.

No one spoke.

The hours blurred together. The jungle changed, denser, darker, older. The trees grew thicker, their trunks wider, their roots forming walls of living wood. The air smelled of moss and decay and something else.

They emerged into a clearing.

And stopped.

The clearing was full of jaguars.

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