The path along the eastern foothills was, after all, easier to navigate than the one to the north.
The moss grew thin here, so their combat boots did not sink too deeply, meeting only a slight slickness.
Early morning light filtered through the sparse canopy, casting wandering patches of brightness across the forest floor.
The mission dispatch board had stated clearly: “Li Fan, Ailong, eastern foothills patrol.” The two had traveled through the woods for an hour, exchanging fewer than twenty words in total.
After a minimalist review of their route and tactics, the rest of their communication was carried entirely in their footfalls.
Ailong had a subtle habit: if there was potential danger in the terrain ahead, his pace would slow by two barely perceptible beats.
It was a veteran’s tactical signal to his partner.
Li Fan had grown accustomed to this half a month ago.
The moment Ailong’s pace dropped ever so slightly, the alarm switch inside Li Fan would trip before his conscious mind even registered it.
Deep in the eastern foothills lay an old hunting post, abandoned for roughly twenty years.
A granite stone slab rested amid the underbrush.
Its surface was weathered to a dark gray by moisture, with ancient runes faintly discernible along the edges.
Li Fan stopped and walked over to the slab.
His gaze locked onto a series of horizontal gouges etched across the center.
Ailong halted beside him like a silent shadow, waiting quietly.
“This was an ancient hunter marking a successful hunt of large game.” Li Fan pointed to the horizontal stroke, a touch of gentle reverence in his voice.
“Three horizontal bars and a circle denote ‘an extreme pursuit exceeding three days.’ You Farstriders probably don’t use this system anymore.” Ailong’s eyes shifted slightly.
“You recognize these runes.” “I saw them in a fragment of an old Lordaeron text.
Supposedly an original version that originated in Quel’Thalas.” Li Fan stared at the deep indentation.
Two hundred years ago, some high elf had chiseled this rune right here.
Time had swallowed the crisp sound of the hammer and the warmth of the carver’s hand, but this mark had crossed the ages, enduring to this day.
Ailong said nothing, standing like a silent stone sculpture, granting him ample time to pay his respects to this legacy.
Afterward, the two continued forward.
The skirmish came without warning.
Three Amani sentries burst out from behind a line of low shrubs.
This was no ambush, but the deadliest kind of head-on collision.
The distance between them was less than fifteen meters.
There was no cover, and no time to choose a firing position.
Ailong reacted with lightning speed.
His longbow was drawn full in an instant.
With a sharp twang, his first arrow shot out like a striking viper, cleanly piercing the throat of the troll on the far right.
The veteran smoothly slid to the side, clearing the charging path for Li Fan.
This wordless concession relied entirely on an understanding forged at the brink of life and death.
Li Fan did not reach for the black bow on his shoulder.
At this range, a bow would only slow him down.
He surged forward with explosive force, slicing into the battlefield like a lunging leopard.
His skinning dagger slipped into his palm, hurtling straight toward the troll in the center with ferocious momentum.
The left one was left to Ailong while he handled the middle—a division of targets executed automatically in the blink of an eye.
The sentry in the middle had bloodshot eyes and had just torn open his maw to sound the alarm.
Li Fan was already upon him like a phantom.
His rough hand clamped down hard on the troll’s throat from the side, while the dagger in his right hand flashed like cold lightning, driving deep into the gap between the ribs before twisting with brutal force!
The roar was choked off in its infancy.
As the troll’s massive body slumped to its knees, Li Fan lowered his center of gravity, catching the corpse firmly so it hit the ground without a sound.
Setting the body down, pulling the blade, rising—all in one fluid motion.
At that exact moment, a dull thud sounded.
The sentry on the left had already been pinned through the skull by Ailong’s second arcane arrow.
Three warm corpses lay across the forest floor, without a single alarm ever raised.
Methodically, the two dragged the bodies deep into the bushes.
Once the clearing was done, Ailong leaned against an ancient tree wiping his bowstring, while Li Fan leaned in the shadows cleaning his blade.
After a brief silence, Ailong suddenly spoke, his voice low: “In the northern foothills, you were different from anyone I’ve ever partnered with before.” Li Fan slid his cleaned dagger into his boot, looked up, and asked casually, “Different how?” Ailong stared at the canopy ahead, pausing longer than usual.
“You know where your partner is.
No words needed, no probing.
You knew on day one.” “Because the rhythm of your gait told me long ago.” Li Fan smiled faintly.
“Many have patrolled with me, but not one noticed that detail.” A total of nineteen words, split into two sentences.
Every bit of it was a pure statement of fact, stripped of unnecessary emotion.
Li Fan’s fingers tightened slightly on his hilt, a rare touch of candor in his voice.
“The same goes for me.” Ailong said no more.
But his rigid shoulders, resting against the tree trunk, subtly relaxed a fraction.
On the return trip, they were less than two hundred paces from the camp entrance.
Walking in front, Ailong suddenly raised a hand slightly, pointing toward the dense thicket on the right.
It was a minimal gesture, signifying “contact.” Like two gray blades, they dispersed to the left and right in an instant.
In under thirty seconds, they emerged from opposite ends of the thicket and regrouped.
In the center of their encirclement was a lost fawn.
It was vigorously burying its head into the bushes, rooting around tree roots, utterly unaware of the threat behind it.
Ailong watched the fawn flee in panic and uttered two flat words: “False alarm.” “Not really.
Think of it as a calibration for instinct and experience.” Li Fan sheathed his dagger, his tone that of an old friend sharing insights.
Ailong turned his head, watching him in silence.
“Pure alert instinct can’t be trusted on its own, because it can’t discern scale,” Li Fan said patiently against the morning light.
“It only senses that ‘something is there.’ As for whether that something is ‘a deer’ or ‘a lethal threat,’ that step is called judgment.
Instinct is merely a tool; the one making the judgment is the one wielding it.” Ailong’s eyes flickered, and he gave a very faint nod—a gesture laden with profound acknowledgment.
The two continued toward camp.
Their boots stepped upon the soft moss, left, right, their rhythms falling into uncanny sync.
Ten paces remained to the camp entrance.
Ailong suddenly reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and handed it to Li Fan.
The movement was as natural as passing along field rations.
Li Fan took it and opened his hand to see a neatly folded slip of parchment.
Unfolding it revealed Ailong’s firm, forceful handwriting: “About two hundred paces south of the third ancient tree in the eastern section of the northern foothills, there is an abandoned hunting post.
There are ancient hunter runes on the stone slab.
You might find them interesting.” Li Fan snapped his head up.
The veteran had already strode away.
He offered no explanation of where the note had come from, nor why he had handed it to a human who could be sent back at any moment.
Li Fan quietly refolded the note and tucked it solemnly into his pocket.