I am invincible, that's why I lie down. You're using your entire clan to rebel?

The night wind was still blowing, and the campfires had been extinguished, leaving only a few wisps of grayish-white smoke rising slowly from the embers. The soldiers retreated to their tents one after another, some still talking in hushed tones, their voices slurred and satisfied with the lingering effects of alcohol, as if the gust of wind had been nothing more than a minor chill to them.

Tuoba Yan sat in the tent for a moment, his right hand resting on his knee, his fingertips slightly curled, his gaze fixed on the edge of the long shadow cast by the candlelight on the ground. He was still thinking about the gust of wind and the strange feeling in it, as if a needle had been stuck in the spot that prevented him from thinking clearly.

Then he heard footsteps.

The footsteps didn't belong to anyone in the camp. They didn't pass through the fence, crush the dry branches, or seem to come from behind a tent flap. The sound was as if it were landing directly on the camp's ground, as if it were seeping from a crack in the night, landing steadily and unhurriedly.

Tuoba Yan placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, stood up, and lifted the tent flap to step outside. He saw the figure crossing the central open space of the camp, his steps unhurried, the hem of his robes fluttering gently in the night breeze, like a tree slowly walking in the wind. No one followed him, yet his presence had already reached every corner of the camp before he even arrived. The soldiers walking into their tents noticed him; some stopped, some turned back. Their gazes fell on the figure, like a herd of deer that had been drinking suddenly raising their heads.

Qin Mu stopped in the center of the camp. He stood there, like someone who had finally stepped into a painting in which he should have already taken his seat.

"You are Tuoba Yan," he said, his voice neither loud nor soft.

Tuoba Yan's fingers tightened slowly around the hilt of his sword: "Who are you?"

Qin Mu didn't answer immediately. He shifted his gaze from Tuoba Yan to the soldiers who were closing in around the camp. His eyes swept across their faces one by one, his movements unhurried, as if he were counting an object he had already confirmed many times. Then he withdrew his gaze and returned it to Tuoba Yan's face: "How many people did you eat?"

When those four words fell into the air, the night seemed to be pressed down by something.

Tuoba Yan's pupils contracted slightly for a moment before returning to normal, and his voice was a degree colder than before: "I don't know what you're talking about."

Qin Mu looked at him as if he were looking at something he no longer needed to confirm. When he spoke, those two words were like a pebble thrown into water, ripples spreading outwards. The soldiers were stunned for a moment, then quickly, like a gust of wind ignited, carrying the stench of alcohol and ferocity, they rushed towards Qin Mu.

Qin Mu didn't move. He simply raised his right hand, as if brushing away a speck of dust from his shoulder. A silvery-white light emerged from his fingertips, without the shape of a sword, yet possessing its sharpness. The light slid from his palm, traversing the arc-shaped path in front of him, as if propelled by the wind. Wherever it passed, the soldiers froze in their tracks.

Before the first person even fell, the second had already stopped breathing. When Tuoba Yan saw the light streak across the open space in the center of the camp, it was like a gust of wind cutting through the withered grass, slicing down the running figures one by one. Their movements remained frozen in place, as if they had been immobilized at a certain point in time, and then they slowly, one after another, collapsed forward, as if finally crushed by something heavy, leaving no room for struggle.

Tuoba Yan stood motionless. He could feel the silent, weightless light that swept past him, thinning out the cacophony of sounds gathering in the camp. His fingers, gripping the hilt of his sword, trembled slightly—not from fear, but from a desperate struggle to control something, as if he wanted to draw his sword, yet also knew it was futile. He asked, "Who exactly are you?"

Qin Mu did not answer. He stood there for a moment, as if to make sure that the figures that had stopped breathing would not stand up again, then he turned around and walked towards the camp gate at a leisurely pace, just as he had come. The hem of his robe brushed against the ashes on the ground, leaving no footprints.

Tuoba Yan stood behind him, like someone left outside a painting frame, watching the figure walk out of the camp gate. The footsteps gradually faded into the night, like an echo being blown away by the wind, finally disappearing completely into the darkness that had been flattened by the wind. He stood there, the hilt of his sword burning hot in his grip, but he still didn't draw it.