They burst from the house. Her "father" met them halfway, breathless, face pale.
"Go! The beast's too close—I'll hold it back!"
He snatched the bag from his wife's hands, then seized hers, dragging them toward the ancestral hall—the only place in the village with an underground shelter.
The world outside was chaos.
Villagers ran in every direction, some clutching infants, others wielding weapons or dragging carts of hastily packed belongings. Screams. Cries. A mother calling for her child. A bloodied hunter yelling orders. A group of warriors fighting off strange beasts—scaled foxes with glowing tails, armored wolves with eyes of flame.
Near the temple, the village chief and his wife stood guard, helping people descend into the shelter.
Then the ground shook.
A roar split the air.
From the northern path, a giant black bear, twice the height of a man, barreled toward them. Icy horns spiraled from its head, mist coiling around its form. Its eyes locked on them.
Hu Yumei's father froze, then grabbed her mother's shoulders.
"Take her! Go!"
"No!" Her mother sobbed, clutching Hu Yumei tighter. "Not without you—!"
"NOW!" he roared.
He shoved them toward the ancestral hall. Hu Yumei's small arms reached out.
"I don't want to leave you!" she screamed, voice tiny, body trembling with a child's fear—but a soldier's will rising beneath it.
⸻
Fire, Ice, and Memory
Her small body couldn't keep up with the pace, but Hu Yumei clenched her jaw and forced her legs to run.
The world was chaos: firelight danced across rooftops, smoke curled into the air, and spiritual energy surged in the distance—warriors battling beasts using sword and spell. But none of it was enough.
The bear was faster.
A beast core surged within it—mid-tier, maybe late. Too much for mortals.
She wasn't helpless. Not entirely. Her soldier's instincts ticked like a metronome in her skull: exit paths, bottlenecks, terrain. Her spiritual root was dormant, but strategy required no qi.
"Left!" she shouted, wrenching her mother's robes toward a narrow alley lined with broken tiles and half-walls.
Her mother, dazed, obeyed.
Just as the beast lunged—the walls crumbled behind them in a blast of frost and stone.
Her father's voice rose behind the explosion—roaring in defiance, sword drawn, striking at the beast's flank with a glowing blade inscribed with runes.
He fought like a man ready to die.
Hu Yumei knew that stance. She had worn it too many times.