Episode 25 – Oakey-Bai, Zhan-Shi Pass, Xuefeng

Two Days in Oakey-Bai

The Lake of Echoes and the Walls of Iron

Oakey-Bai greeted the Roving Adventurers with crisp mountain air that rushed over the lake, stirring pale ripples across the mirrored surface. Towering battlements, sharp and tall, ringed the city with their dark stonework. The northern shore, flanked by low docks and long merchant piers, bustled with early morning fishmongers, while the southern side climbed in steep terraces against the base of the Fangtooth Range.

The party’s first impressions were of regimentation—the city moved like a war camp polished to civic pride.Banners of Zhan Min’s ancient houses whipped in the breeze, each one bearing dragons, lions, cranes, and lightning bolts in red, gold, and obsidian. Oakey-Bai was a place of discipline and pride. Guards in lamellar armor stood rigidly at the gates, inspecting papers, measuring words, and issuing clipped nods.

The party was housed in the Stone Spirit Lodge, a guesthouse for honored travelers overlooking the lake. The lodgekeeper, an elderly woman named Jien-Lu, served them thick rice porridge with salted plum and told stories of Zhan Min’s ancient defensive campaigns against sea-raiders and southern hordes.

The Grand Parade and the Stone Bell

The first afternoon in Oakey-Bai was spent watching the Parade of the Third Flame, a martial celebration held once every decade to honor the soldiers who survived the last siege of the Fangtooth Range. Makhulim was especially entranced, cheering beside children as armored warriors performed ritualized duels, and massive brass drums echoed through the plazas. The Stone Bell—a colossal, rune-inscribed boulder used in battle to signal formations—was paraded on a wheeled dais through the city center. It is said to ring only when touched by those fated to defend the land.

Marcho sneakily brushed his hand against it. Nothing happened. He shrugged and smirked. “Guess fate’s on break.”

That night, visions came to Faylen. In her dreams, Oakey-Bai burned—but the fires came from within the lake, rising like serpents of steam.

The Library of Ashen Leaves

The following morning, the party visited the Library of Ashen Leaves, a quiet temple of scrolls built beside an ancient pine grove. The monks within wore dark grey robes and carried no weapons, but their eyes were as sharp as arrows.

There, Faylen and Nayzungit uncovered records detailing the transformation of Zhan Min from a warrior kingdom to a protectorate, and its long struggle to keep the Xuefeng mystics at bay in past centuries. Maps revealed the upcoming Zhan-Shi Pass, an ancient mountain corridor marked with old watchposts and crumbling shrines to nameless spirits.

The monks offered a single warning: “The mountains remember what the cities forget.”

Through the Zhan-Shi Pass

Day One – Ascent and Snowfall

The party departed Oakey-Bai before dawn. The air was sharp with cold, and a light flurry began before noon. The road rose quickly into switchbacks, with narrow paths overlooking steep cliffs. The walls of the Zhan-Shi Pass were jagged like broken teeth, and avalanche chimes swung lazily from wooden beams driven into the rock.

Marcho pointed out what looked like a collapsed battlement, but Nayzungit insisted it was a burial cairn. Closer inspection revealed rusted weapons and stone tablets bearing names too weathered to read.

That night, as they made camp near a collapsed bridge, Faylen saw a figure on the ridge watching them—a man in antique armor, face obscured by a dragon-faced helm. But when she looked again, he was gone.

Day Two – Whispers and Stone Spirits

The path narrowed. Strange cairns of polished stone lined the cliffs. Snow turned to ice pellets that tapped on the rocks like chattering teeth. The wind moaned, low and sharp.

Makhulim’s axe began to hum softly, and Nayzungit claimed he saw shadows standing within other shadows. Faylen could sense magic in the stone itself. It was a warded place.

At noon, they passed beneath the Gate of Last Silence, a pair of standing stones etched with runes no one could read. Silence fell like a blanket, and none of them spoke for hours afterward. That night, the dreams came again—battlefields between sky and stone, blood frozen in motion, spirits refusing to fall.

Day Three – Ruins and Ice Caves

The group stumbled upon a half-buried watchtower and took shelter there. Inside, remnants of armor, shattered teacups, and faded banners told the story of the last garrison. Faylen lit a spell-light and revealed murals—battles not only of men but also of shadows given form.

The wind inside the tower sounded like screaming when it passed the arrow slits.

They later crossed a small glacial plateau and found a cave marked with charms of banishment. Within were offerings—bowls of rice turned to dust, incense frozen in time, and bones arranged into wards.

Nayzungit left a prayer to Angradd.

Day Four – Descent into Wyn-Oul

The descent was steep and treacherous. Stone gave way to soil, and the winds carried not cold but mist. The transition was startling—pine gave way to cherry trees, and thorned vines crept across the trail.

They emerged into a verdant valley, blanketed in mist. Before them stretched the bamboo-walled town of Wyn-Oul, an outpost of both trade and tradition. Temple bells rang in the fog.

Faylen said softly, “Zhan Min is behind us. We walk now in lands that dream.”

Resupply in Wyn-Oul and the Road of Paper Cranes

Market of Feathers and Flame

Wyn-Oul bustled with color. Markets were lined with paper lanterns and stalls selling ginseng, fire-roasted eel, feathered charms, and spirit-masks. The people bowed often, smiled rarely, and spoke softly.

The party resupplied with local guides—buying trail cakes made of dried plum and ginger, fire-starting beads, herbal poultices, and enchanted wind-chimes said to keep nightmares away.

Faylen lingered at a stall run by a blind woman who carved tiny spirit totems from plum wood. She bought one in the shape of a fox.

Conversations at the Dragon Bowl

At the tavern The Dragon Bowl, they met Shizune, a wandering herbalist and lorekeeper who offered cryptic warnings:

“Do not cut the cherry trees.
Do not sing past dusk.
Do not cross a shadow on the left.”

Marcho took notes. Makhulim scoffed. Nayzungit, however, carved those warnings into his greataxe.

Shizune told tales of a place called Wan-Shi, once a sanctuary for cloud mystics, now a place of ritual and deep sleep. “There,” she said, “the air itself listens.”

Three Days to Wan-Shi

Day One – The Dreaming Pines

The road curved gently, marked with white stones painted with ink calligraphy. Each bore a different phrase:

“Do not run from silence.”
“Your reflection walks ahead of you.”
“Even water forgets its name.”

As the trees grew taller, the party walked through sun-dappled groves where the wind moved in waves, and sound seemed to echo oddly.

Marcho said he heard singing. Faylen said she heard her mother.

That night, their dreams were calm but surreal. Makhulim walked into a sea of stars. Nayzungit spoke with his old mentor who had died decades before.

Day Two – The Shrine of Unopened Eyes

Midday brought them to a hillside shrine carved into the cliff. Statues of foxes with closed eyes lined the steps. A spirit priest waited there, clad in white silks.

She offered them tea and said, “Wan-Shi is near. Be gentle with your words.”

The tea tasted like moonlight.

That night, Marcho dreamed of a thousand doors. Only one opened—and behind it was a field of feathers.

Day Three – Arrival in Wan-Shi

They arrived near dusk. Wan-Shi shimmered like a mirage—buildings curved like petals, roofs tiled in glassy blues, and paper cranes hanging from every awning.

The people here bowed deeply, their eyes half-lidded, and their speech slow and melodic. A great bell tolled every hour, but made no sound.

As they entered the town square, a procession of monks passed carrying candles that did not burn.

Nayzungit whispered, “We’re not in the world we know.”

Faylen answered, “And we may never fully return.”