The rain falls thin and cold, slicing the mountain path into ribbons of gray. It does not fall gently. It falls like intent—measured, patient, unrelenting. Water beads along the rim of a bamboo hat and slides off in clean arcs, dripping onto stone already darkened by countless footsteps long forgotten.
A mysterious figure walks alone. His boots make no sound. The mud does not cling to him, as though even the earth hesitates unwilling to leave a mark. Beneath the bamboo hat hangs a ghost mask—white, cracked, expressionless save for a faintly carved smile that never reaches the eyes hidden behind it. Black robes cling to his frame, soaked at the edges, the hems embroidered with red blossoms that appear almost alive when the rain darkens the thread.
A sword rests at his left hip slim and plain. Unadorned. At his right side, beneath the folds of his robe, flying daggers sleep like teeth behind closed lips.
This young wanderer does not hurry. He has nowhere to arrive and nothing to flee. The mountain wind brushes past him, carrying the scent of wet pine and decaying leaves, and he breathes it in without thought. His breathing is steady, slow, practiced—like someone who has long since stopped expecting tomorrow.
Above him, the sky is the color of old iron. Below him, a valley sinks into fog. And behind him, far beyond distance and time, a house burns again.
~~
He does not dream anymore. Sleep comes only in fragments—shallow, broken, without mercy. But memory does not need sleep, it waits.
A child's hand gripping cloth. A woman's voice calling his name from the kitchen, annoyed and warm. A man coughing softly behind a ledger, pretending not to worry. A family that is not his by blood, yet becomes his by choice.
Zhen Family.
The memory arrives uninvited, sharp as a blade drawn across skin. Night where torches flare, steel sings, and screams that do not last long. He remembers hiding beneath a collapsed beam with the smell of smoke stinging his eyes, his mouth filled with dust and blood. He remembers fingers digging into his shoulder—rough, hurried, and familiar.
"Live," someone whispers before that hand goes slack.
By dawn, the Zhen Family no longer exists. No graves, or witnesses, or justice. Only him left in existence that carries this story. And he has only one name since ever—Zhen Yan, a name that carries his memories.
~~
The path widens as the mountain slope softens. Through the rain and mist, a structure emerges—crooked and old, clinging stubbornly to the rock face. A small roadside pavilion, its wooden beams dark with age, its roof sagging but unbroken.
A tea pavilion with smoke curling faintly from within.
Zhen Yan slows as he senses the presence before he sees the man. It is not killing intent, nor hostility. It is rather weight—quiet, deep, like a boulder settled at the bottom of a river. Unmoving, yet impossible to ignore.
Inside the pavilion sits an old elder. His hair is white, bound simply behind his head. His back is straight despite his age, his hands resting calmly on the table before him. A pot of tea steams between two chipped cups. The elder wears coarse gray robes, unremarkable in every way. All except for his eyes. They are clear. Rather too clear. Settling on Zhen Yan the moment he steps beneath the pavilion roof.
"Rain like this..." the elder says, voice calm and dry, "soaks deeper than it appears."
Zhen Yan reacts to no words, simply keeping quiet as the droplets of rain touches the ground with splattering sounds of nature. Only remaining standing at the threshold, rain dripping from his hat, mask unreadable, posture loose but ready. His right hand rests near his robe, fingers relaxed. He does not draw his weapon—he does not need to.
Silence stretches for a moment while the elder smiles faintly and pours tea into the second cup anyway. "You may sit," he says, "...or not. Either way, the tea will cool."
The rain is cut off abruptly, replaced by the quiet patter against wood and stone. He does not remove his hat or mask. He remains standing despite the permission to sit, standing opposite the elder with his eyes fixed and assessing.
"You're not afraid," the elder observes.
"I don't fear what bleeds," Zhen Yan replies. His voice is steady, low and worn smooth by disuse.
The elder nods as if hearing a confirmation he already expected. "Nor death, I presume." Chuckling softly.
Zhen Yan's gaze does not flicker. "Death fears me."
"Arrogant words," the elder says, "...but not empty ones." Lifting his cup and drinks calmly while steam curls past his weathered face. "I have watched you for three days," he continues casually. "You pass through villages without staying. Bandits avoid your shadow. Hired blades do not return when they follow you. And yet…" lifting his gaze as his brows lower, "...you do not take what you could."
Zhen Yan's eyes narrow slightly.
"Observation leads to insight," the elder says, setting down his cup. "Insight leads to curiosity. And curiosity, in old men like me, is difficult to kill." Seeing how silent the young man is, the elder gestures toward the empty seat. "Sit," he repeats in his friendly tone, "...unless you intend to kill me."
"If I intended that," Zhen Yan says in a flat tone of seriousness, "you would already be dead."
The elder laughs openly now, pleased. "Good," he chuckles, "Then we may speak honestly."
The bench creaks beneath him when he finally sits. The tea in front of him remains still and untouched. "What do you want?" he asks. The elder studies him—his posture, the way his fingers rest, the faint tension coiled beneath stillness. "I want to know," the elder says slowly, "what keeps a man walking when his roots have been burned to ash."
The words strike like a hammer wrapped in silk, and for a brief moment, something stirs behind the ghost mask. Then it stills.
"Curiosity," Zhen Yan replies. "...is dangerous."
"Yes," the elder agrees. "That is why it survives."
Another pause.
"You wear death like a second skin," the elder continues. "But you are not empty. Empty men drift. You walk with purpose."
Zhen Yan's fingers tighten, just slightly. "Purpose ends," he says.
"Not all purposes," the elder counters, "some sharpen." The rain intensifies, drumming against the pavilion roof.
The elder leans forward. "Tell me," he says quietly. "Do you know who annihilated the Zhen Family?"
The name hangs between them like a drawn blade. Zhen Yan remains still unmoving.
"You know," the elder continues gently, "that the killers were not ordinary. Their coordination. Their silence. Their methods."
Zhen Yan's voice is cold. "Say your point." His fist clutching into a fist.
"They were sent," the elder says. "Not by hatred. Not by necessity. But by command."
A flicker—brief, violent—passes through Zhen Yan's gaze. "I already know this," he says.
"Then you know," the elder presses, "that the command did not come from the lowlands."
Silence.
"You wander," the elder says, "cutting down threads one by one. But the hand that holds them remains untouched."
Zhen Yan finally reaches for the tea, lifting the cup, his eyes study the surface before he sets it down untouched again. "I will reach it," he says. "Even if I must climb over corpses to do so."
The elder watches him for a long moment, then he smiles—not kindly, not cruelly. "Good," he says. "Then our meeting is not just by chance."
Zhen Yan's eyes harden.
"Explain."
The elder reaches into his sleeve and places something on the table.
A token.
Black metal. Carved with a sigil half-scratched away.
Zhen Yan recognizes it instantly: One of the killers had carried the same mark.
"This," the elder says, "is a petal."
Zhen Yan's hand moves. The token is in his grasp in an instant.
"Every petal," the elder continues, "belongs to a blossom."
The rain begins to ease. Outside the pavilion, mist shifts, revealing the winding road ahead.
Zhen Yan stands, bowing respectfully for once after many years. "Might I ask the senior, for the location?" he asks.
The elder points down the mountain. "To where your past was buried," he says softly. "And where your future will bleed."
Zhen Yan turns away. As he steps back into the rain, the elder speaks one last time. "Child," he says, "when the blossom blooms… will you still recognize yourself?" Zhen Yan does not answer. He simply pulls the bamboo hat lower, the ghost mask gleaming faintly beneath. "I stopped asking that," he says, "the night everyone I loved died."
And he walks on without looking back while the old elder's smile still remains unchanged on his face.