—
Mù Xuán's face hardened beneath the silk mask as she crouched low, one hand brushing the damp soil for balance.
The mask clung softly to her skin — smooth yet suffocating.
Beneath it, her lips parted slightly as she drew in the cold, sharp air.
A faint shimmer of her blue eyes flickered through the haze, glowing like candlelight behind a veil.
Then she saw it—
—
The mist parted.
And her pulse stopped.
—
Ahead, chaos unfurled like a storm.
Blades clashed.
Sparks scattered like fireflies in the dim light.
The air trembled with violence.
—
At the edge of the clearing — where the trees thinned and the ground dipped into an open glade — nearly thirty men in dark armor fought in a blur of motion and blood.
Their armor bore the mark of soldiers: black lamellar plates trimmed in dull bronze, shoulder guards carved like wolf jaws, and crimson sashes knotted at their waists.
Each carried curved sabers and short bows, their weapons glinting faintly beneath the pale morning sun.
Dust, mist, and blood mingled in the air.
The clang of steel rang out again and again, echoing off the cliffs.
But what froze her heart wasn't their numbers.
It was him.
One man.
A lone figure standing tall at the center of that chaos.
He moved like a storm — silent but unstoppable.
—
He stood at the heart of the battle like a shadow carved from the heavens.
Every motion he made was deliberate, lethal, impossibly graceful.
His sword — black as obsidian and kissed with a silver edge — sang through the air in arcs that split light itself.
His long black hair flowed with him, swirling in rhythm with every strike.
It shimmered faintly beneath the ghostly sun, framing a face so sharp it seemed sculpted by divine hands.
His amber eyes — cold, merciless — burned like molten fire trapped beneath ice, glowing with a restrained, dangerous calm that made her breath catch.
His nose was tall and refined, his jaw elegant yet unyielding.
When his hair whipped across his face, he looked untamed — like a fallen god dressed in shadow.
But it was his lips — those vivid, blood-red lips — that drew her gaze and refused to let go.
They were the color of wine… and twice as intoxicating.
—
Mù Xuán swallowed hard, realizing she hadn't breathed in seconds.
He was… perfection.
Breathtaking.
Too breathtaking.
Her mind screamed for her to look away — to move, to disappear before anyone noticed her.
But her body refused.
Something about him — the calm precision of his movements, the icy control in his gaze, the raw storm of power around him — held her still.
The world beyond him blurred.
Swords clashed.
Men screamed.
The earth trembled.
Yet her eyes didn't waver.
Thirty men against one — and he stood his ground, unshaken.
His blade danced through the air like lightning, cutting through shadows and flesh alike.
The ground around him was littered with bodies, armor glinting with fresh blood.
Still, he didn't falter.
Every turn of his wrist was a strike.
Every breath, a killing rhythm.
Every step, a dance of death.
—
Mù Xuán had seen hunters fight wolves before.
She had seen farmers defend their fields from beasts.
But this—
—
This was art.
The art of killing.
Her heart pounded wildly.
She didn't know how long she'd been crouched behind the twisted roots of the old willow.
Her knees ached, the mist stung her eyes, yet she couldn't look away.
He was… mesmerizing.
Thirty against one — and still, he remained untouchable.
---
"What…" she whispered, her lips trembling beneath the mask. "How long have I…"
She hadn't realized how long she'd been watching — how lost she'd become in the hypnotic rhythm of his movements.
Each strike was a painting.
Each breath, a song.
There was something otherworldly about him — the kind of presence that made the world feel smaller, and her pulse louder.
—
When she finally blinked, reality returned like a slap.
Only five men were left standing.
The rest lay strewn across the glade, groaning or motionless.
Had she truly watched the entire slaughter… just admiring him?
She pressed a trembling hand to her lips.
He moved differently now — slower, perhaps tired, but no less precise.
His blade cut downward in a clean arc, splitting through another man's chest.
The soldier crumpled with a choking gasp, collapsing onto the blood-soaked earth.
—
Mù Xuán's fingers clenched against the moss.
Then — movement.
Behind him.
Her breath hitched.
—
One of the fallen soldiers, armor cracked and face ghostly pale, was forcing himself to his knees.
His hand trembled, but his sword rose, jagged and stained with blood.
He aimed it straight at the man's unguarded back.
No.
Mù Xuán's heart froze.
Her lips parted — but no sound came out.
He doesn't see it…
The man's blade rose higher.
Time slowed to a crawl.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
And before thought could stop her, she was already moving.
Her hand shot forward instinctively as she breathed out, her voice breaking through the mist—
"Be careful!"
—
Everything stopped.
The man in black froze.
Every soldier turned.
His amber eyes snapped toward the forest — toward her voice.
The soldier's sword gleamed as it thrust forward—
—