The mountains give way to the plains. The wind shifts from pine-scented to dry, carrying dust and the faint tang of smoke. Zhen Yan moves with measured steps, bamboo hat low, and the ghost mask shadowed beneath its brim. The sun is hidden behind clouds, a dim pall over the road, but he does not need light. His senses are honed, tuned to the faintest movement, the quietest sound, the subtlest shift in the air.
The token in his sleeve presses against his side, a reminder of every life he has touched and every life he has taken. The petals are falling faster now and he can feel the threads stretching toward him, taut and dangerous.
He pauses at the edge of a village—a small settlement, unremarkable at first glance. But the quiet is wrong. Too much. Not the peace of diligence, but the suffocating stillness of obedience. Children do not play. Dogs lie unmoving in the dirt. Even the wind seems hesitant as though it fears stirring what sleeps here.
Zhen Yan, in calm breath, takes steps forward.
Two figures suddenly emerge from an alley. Their robes are dark, embroidered with the sigil of the great family. Their eyes are sharp, scanning, and calculating. They carry no swords at the first glance, yet every muscle in their bodies speaks of lethal intent.
"You travel far, Windshadow," one of them says. His voice carries no fear. Only observation. "And yet… you are reckless."
Zhen Yan tilts his head beneath the hat. "I am neither reckless nor careful. I simply walk."
The second figure moves with a whisper of motion, sliding to flank him. "You do not understand what moves behind the silk," she says. "Nor the roots that reach beyond this village. You've killed petals before knowing the tree they bloom from."
Zhen Yan's hands brush the folds of his robe, fingers resting on the daggers beneath the sleeves. The red blossoms at the hem flicker faintly, like fireflies disturbed. "I know enough to cut the roots," he says.
A pause. A measured breath. The air tightens.
Then the first figure strikes. Not at him, but at a villager—an old man shuffling water from a well. The movement is lightning-quick, precise. It is a warning.
Zhen Yan's body reacts before thought. A dagger slides free, spinning through the air to intercept the blow. The man freezes mid-motion, eyes wide, recognizing the Windshadow at last.
"You interfere where you shouldn't," the second figure hisses. Her fingers twitch, readying another strike. "You cannot survive this path."
Zhen Yan steps forward, letting the daggers fall and catch again, each movement flowing into the next, seamless and silent. He does not raise his sword—at least not just yet. His purpose is not for the destruction of the weak, but of those who hide behind them.
The first figure recovers, realizing the old man is unharmed. "Your mercy is… unusual," he says, narrowing his eyes. "It does not belong to predators."
"It belongs to the fallen," Zhen Yan says quietly, "and to those who will remember them."
The second figure snarls, stepping closer, and for the first time, Zhen Yan feels a flicker—small, almost imperceptible—of something he thought he buried long ago.
The child. The one from Lanyin. His image, trembling and small, surfaces in the recesses of memory. And with it, a faint echo of the Zhen Family. Voices he should not be hearing, faces that should not exist anymore. He tightens his grip on his sword.
"You should leave," he says, voice calm but edged. "I do not harm innocents."
The first figure tilts his head, a smile faint and cruel. "You already have," he chuckles softly, face holding the crude smile, "...and yet you call yourself... Windshadow?"
Before Zhen Yan can respond, the second figure lunges, dagger aimed directly at the village well, threatening another life. His hand flashes— the dagger spins through her attack, deflecting the blow, and in a smooth motion, the sword leaves its sheath. A single precise and unyielding arc forcing her to retreat.
The first figure laughs softly. "Interesting," he murmurs. "So even predators have rules. You will not break them."
Zhen Yan's gaze hardens beneath the ghost mask. "Rules are illusions. Only consequence is real."
The man nods slightly. "Perhaps that is why you survive. But the tree above… the great family… they are not illusions. And they will come."
Zhen Yan steps past them, leaving them in the dusted streets. Villagers stare silently from their doorways, unbroken but shaken. Their eyes follow him, knowing and fearing, yet powerless. All while he cares not to waste his time looking back.
The road ahead narrows, funneling between high cliffs and thorned shrubs. Beyond lies the territory controlled directly by the great family. Every step forward tightens the circle.
And somewhere far above, in a hall of silk, shadows move. A figure picks up a token—the same as Zhen Yan holds—and smiles faintly.
"The Windshadow grows bold," the voice says. "Perhaps... too bold. Let us see if mercy is stronger than fear… or weaker than it should be."
Zhen Yan's hand brushes the hilt of his sword beneath his robe. The petals continue to fall as he walks onward.
The valley narrows as Zhen Yan approaches the edge of the great family's territory. High stone walls rise abruptly, jagged against the dim afternoon sun. Guard towers punctuate the horizon at measured intervals. The air carries the metallic tang of discipline, the faint undercurrent of fear, and the scent of incense burned to mask more sinister deeds.
Zhen Yan walks deliberately slowly through the narrow path that snakes along the wall. His bamboo hat casting a shadow over his mask, patterns of red blossoms at the hem of his robe sway lightly with each step. His sword resting easily at his side and daggers remain poised in the sleeves. Every sense stretches outward, touching invisible threads.
He feels them first: subtle shifts in the air, disciplined breaths, and almost imperceptible footsteps though no one is near enough to even be seen.
The Inner Court moves like a living organism. They have noticed him and have now position themselves like branches around a tree waiting for a storm to break.
A sudden rustle—soft, almost polite. Two men step from the shadows. Silver-lined robes, faces concealed by masks of iron. Each carries twin blades coiled like snakes, their movements quiet but precise. Their eyes are cold beneath the metal.
"You are far from the paths you know," one of them says. Voice flat, measured. "You have crossed into the Inner Court's reach."
Zhen Yan tilts his head, his eyes narrow just a little as his dark pupils reflect their image. "I walk where petals fall. That... includes your gardens."
The men glance at each other, and in that fleeting moment, a signal passes between them.
And before a leaf lands gently onto the ground... steel flashes.
The first strike is not chaotic, but rather a series of carefully timed movements. One man swings low, another high, both aiming to trap Zhen Yan between their strikes. But he moves as if he had anticipated each and every, shifting weight fluidly, dagger flicking out to deflect a blade, and lastly a sword slicing through the space between them.
A dog barks faintly in the distance, but the sound feels like it belongs to another world.
Rushing might lead to unintentional mistakes, and so Zhen Yan does not rush. Each motion flows into the next, precise, controlled, and almost ceremonial. One opponent overextends; a dagger finds its mark, grazing shoulder, eliciting a soft hiss. The other steps back recognizing the rhythm.
"You are not like the others," one man admits, voice low, wary.
"I was forged by their absence," Zhen Yan replies in a flat voice. "By the blood they thought would vanish."
The men hesitate just a fraction too long. That is enough.
Zhen Yan advances, sword arcing cleanly and forcing the first back. Daggers spinning outward, knocking weapons aside for creating openings that his blade will exploit. Each movement is economical, unceremonious, but deadly. They move as if cutting time itself.
He steps past their defenses. Steel clashes, the faint hum of metal slicing air. And then he stops. The second man freezes, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple. Zhen Yan tilts his head under the mask, voice low and sharp. "This ends now. Leave the innocents, or else...blood will mark everything in this street."
A pause before the first man speaks, voice restrained. "The order… it did not come from the Inner Court. It came from above. You will not survive if you continue."
Zhen Yan takes a step closer, sword lowered but ready. "Who sent the killers? Who commanded the Zhen Family's annihilation?"
The second man falters. "You… you do not understand—"
"Tell me," Zhen Yan interrupts. "Or live long enough to regret not speaking."
The first man exhales sharply, eyes flicking to the walls, then back. "The family… the one who gave the order… higher than all others. Above the Inner Court. The Root beyond petals. You… you cannot strike them. You will fail."
Zhen Yan's hands tighten on his weapons. "Then I will burn the tree to reach the roots."
Before another word is spoken, a figure appears at the end of the street. Qiu Feng. With a staff in hand, expression calm and unreadable.
"You push too fast," he says quietly, almost to himself. Then louder: "But perhaps… it is time to see how deep your resolve runs."
Zhen Yan does not respond. He only watches.
From the shadows, more enforcers emerge. Not petals, not scouts. The true Inner Court, trained and lethal, moving with intent to suppress and contain.
Zhen Yan exhales slowly beneath the mask. The streets become a battlefield of precision and calculation. Every strike, parry, and feint demonstrates not only skill but a philosophy: strike only those who deserve it; spare the weak; let the guilty bleed first.
The clash lasts but moments, yet feels endless. When the dust settles, bodies are down, not indiscriminately, but chosen carefully. Zhen Yan stands among them, breath steady, dagger ready, sword gleaming faintly.
Qiu Feng steps forward, voice soft. "You see now… how deep it runs. And yet, even here, mercy threads through you. It will be both your strength—and your temptation."
Zhen Yan adjusts his mask. "Mercy is not meant for the guilty," he says. "It is for the innocent." Lowering his head as he glares, "...and I will not falter."
In the silence that follows, a messenger arrives at the Inner Court's hall. A single word spoken shakes the marble floors: "Windshadow."
Far above in the halls of silk and stone, the great family finally takes notice. And somewhere, a map of alliances and betrayal begins to tremble under the weight of one wandering shadow.