The movement of the bodyguards had left the assassins utterly baffled.
They had planned this ambush for days, watched from rooftops and alleyways, bribes exchanged with street peddlers, information acquired from gossipy innkeepers and careless servants. They had traced Jun Mo Xie's steps, observed his habits, and mapped his route home from the pub to the last inch of cobbled stone. His use of the palanquin was consistent, elegant, and predictable. Tonight was supposed to be a masterpiece of lethal precision.
And yet…
"Why would they abandon the palanquin?" A masked man hissed, crouching on a roof, his eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Something's wrong. This doesn't make sense!"
Another muttered under his breath, "They didn't even check if he was alive… they just ran…"
Even the sharpest minds among them couldn't make sense of the absurd sight. These weren't mercenaries or hired thugs guarding the Jun family heir—these were the Jun clan's personal elite! Men whose loyalty was said to be forged in steel and blood. Men who would gladly lay down their lives before letting harm come to their young master.
So why… why abandon him?
The air around the burning palanquin grew heavier, as if the storm clouds above had dropped a leaden curtain of suspicion and confusion upon the street.
One of the assassins took a hesitant step forward, his gloved fingers trembling ever so slightly around the hilt of his dagger.
"…It's a bluff," Li Zhi Wu said, the leader of the assassination unit. His voice was calm but cold, like a blade drawn across silk. "They wouldn't leave unless ordered. Which means he told them to go."
His eyes narrowed toward the palanquin, whose elevated frame and swaying canopy still gave the impression that someone was inside.
"He must be there. Injured, maybe. Or maybe he's setting a trap. Either way, we end this now. Two teams: follow those guards and capture at least one alive. Break them if you must—drag answers out of their throats. The rest of you—circle the palanquin."
At his command, a dozen shadows split like ink in water.
Two squads pursued the fleeing guards, darting into alleys and rooftops, engaging them at the corner Jun Mo Xie had pointed to earlier. The sounds of clashing metal echoed down the stone streets.
Shouts, grunts, and the sharp hiss of blades meeting flesh rose like a grim chorus against the backdrop of the storm.
Li Zhi Wu remained with his chosen vanguard. They moved silently, weapons drawn, as they closed around the palanquin like a tightening noose. Their black cloaks fluttered in the wind, and the gleam of their polished weapons shimmered under the flicker of distant lightning.
"Young master Jun," Li Zhi Wu said, voice like oil poured over ice, "you can come out now. There are no loopholes in our net, no path left unguarded. Resistance is meaningless."
The street responded with silence.
Li Zhi Wu took another step forward, his golden sword glinting in the dark. "Still stubborn? Then perhaps… fire will loosen your tongue."
He gestured with two fingers.
In a matter of seconds, six torches flared to life in his assassins' hands, bathing the grim alley in a hellish orange glow. The flames crackled, wild and hungry, and were quickly thrust upon the fabric of the palanquin.
The wood caught instantly. Flames licked upward like dragons unfurling their wings, devouring the bamboo frame with a screech. Black smoke coiled into the air, and the scent of burning lacquer and silk invaded the nostrils of every man present.
Li Zhi Wu grinned.
"He's burning," One of his men muttered gleefully. "He has to be—he wouldn't have time to escape—"
But then something… was off.
Where was the screaming?
Where was the smell of burning flesh, the desperate thrashing of a man consumed by flames?
Instead, all they heard was the groaning of collapsing wood and the occasional snapping of heated bamboo poles. The smoke that rose held no acrid edge of charred skin. No shriek. No pain.
Only fire.
And silence.
"…He's not in there," One assassin finally said, his voice low and stunned.
Li Zhi Wu's brow twitched.
"Impossible," He growled. "I watched it myself! The palanquin was sagging from weight—someone was in there! And no man could've escaped without breaking our perimeter!"
His eyes darted across the smoke-filled street, trying to sense what had been missed.
Clang!
Two chains shot forward from his men's sleeves and lashed toward the burning palanquin. With a tug, the walls and roof were ripped open in one fell swoop.
But there was nothing inside.
There were only scorched cushions and a faint depression where someone had once sat.
"…We've been tricked!" One of the masked assassins shouted.
Li Zhi Wu's golden blade trembled in his grip as realization dawned on him.
KRA-KOOM!!
A violent explosion of thunder cracked through the heavens above, sending a deafening shockwave through the street. The black clouds that had gathered now burst open with the fury of a dam torn asunder.
Rain descended in a furious torrent—cold, blinding, merciless.
Within moments, the fire that had engulfed the palanquin was beaten down, steam hissing and curling up into the smoky night like the breath of a dying beast. Flames sputtered, then vanished entirely, leaving behind only char and ash.
"This is bad…" One assassin whispered. "He tricked us. He's gone."
On the other side, Jun Mo Xie's eight bodyguards were locked in a brutal skirmish—outnumbered nearly two-to-one, battered, soaked to the bone, and breathing heavily from the constant circulation of their rapidly depleting Xuan Qi. Their faces were pale, their clothes torn, their feet slipping on blood-slicked stone, but still they held the line, gritting their teeth like stubborn lions refusing to bow before a flood.
They could have run. A handful might've even made it—wounded, yes, but alive.
But not one of them did.
Because their mission wasn't survival, it was distraction.
They had only one task, and it was to buy time for the Young Master.
Just then, a casual voice echoed like the whisper of a ghost behind one of the masked assassins.
"Hey, how's it going?"
The assassin blinked and turned his head just in time to see a pair of slender, almost delicate fingers drift toward his neck like falling feathers.
Chuck.
Two fingers. That was all it took.
The man's eyes bulged. His entire body seized. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. The world spun sideways as his legs gave out, crumpling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. His lips trembled, but all he could mutter was.
"W-Who—?"
Dead before the question could finish.
And yet… his death was so quick, so smooth, it left no hint of threat.
So much so, the assassin standing nearest to him frowned and stepped forward, puzzled. "What are you—why are you kneeling? This isn't the time to pray, you fool—"
The assassin reached down, extending a hand to help the fallen man up.
But the moment his palm made contact.
Crack!
"HUHH?!"
His world flipped literally.
His neck twisted with an unnatural snap, and suddenly he was facing backwards... staring directly at his own rear end.
Wait... what…?
He thought as confusion swirled through his dying mind. Was I… always this flexible?
And then darkness claimed him.
His face hit the wet stone with a dull thud, eyes wide open, mouth slightly ajar, expression frozen in the most absurd mix of wonder and horror—as if even in death, he was unable to believe that his final memory on earth… was his own buttocks.
Truly, a merciful end.
"Be careful—!"
The shout came too late.
Thunder cracked like heaven's war drum, and the skies lit up in ghostly blue arcs.
Shadows danced erratically as rain turned the street into a churning river of black and crimson.
BOOM!
The storm seemed to hold its breath as a figure appeared.
He was suddenly there, standing in the middle of four assassins, as if the very world had conspired to place him among them.
One of the masked killers screamed, "Behind you!"
Another shouted, "Get back! Fall back—fall—"
Too late.
The figure moved.
---- ✦ ✦ ✦ ----
Spoilers for the next three chapters!
Chapter 96: The Real Predator
Chapter 97: Failure
Chapter 98: Mysterious Expert
--- ✦ ✦ ✦ ---
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