It was the third day after the blood had been scrubbed from the cold, unforgiving stones, and the shattered bodies had been silently borne away, hidden from the gaze of all but the wind and the moon. The guards, once relaxed in the familiarity of peace, now doubled their vigilance. Steel shone not for ornament, nor for pride, but with the cold gleam of readiness under the lanterns' weak, flickering light. The once joyous courtyards, where flowers bloomed bright and fish danced lazily in the pond, now seemed hollow, as though the very earth had drawn a breath of apprehension. The air, too, had changed—sharpened, it seemed; quieter, deeper, more watchful, like a hawk circling unseen.
Gu Yan Chen sat alone in the war chamber—long a place forsaken in these more peaceful years. The chamber, gloomy and dusty, stood like a forgotten relic of some past age, its dark lacquered table unfurled with maps, which lay spread open like ancient scrolls of prophecy, whispering of fates yet unwritten. Reports, neat and precise, stacked in grim silence beside them—each page written in dry ink, the hand of Captain Hou and his men. The assassins had borne tattoos upon their bodies—dark, sinister markings of a black feather drawn across their shoulder blades—a sigil Gu Yan Chen had seen before, long ago, on the lifeless forms of mercenaries employed by the Golden Vulture Guild.
A guild, it was well known, that killed not for honour, nor for politics, but for silver.
And silver, it seemed, had been far from scarce.
"This ink is still fresh," Captain Hou remarked with an air of grimness. "They were hired no more than a fortnight ago."
Gu Yan Chen did not respond. In silence, he rose from his seat, his gaze turning to the window, where, below, Mu Lian stood alone in the courtyard, striking the air with a wooden staff, her brow glistening with the sheen of sweat. Her movements were swift, purposeful—each one a thing of deliberate intent.
He watched her for a moment, his thoughts whirling behind his still eyes, before murmuring, almost to himself:
"I know who sent them."
The Gu family, though grand in name and power, had never been a house of unity. The first branch, his own bloodline, had long held dominion over the family estate, its lands stretching as far as the eye could see. But the second branch, headed by Gu Jian Heng—his uncle—had, over the years, grown rich in commerce, though quietly, under the shadow of bitter resentment. It was an old tale, one as old as time itself: one branch wielded the sword, while the other, the coin. And in times of peace, it was never the sword that reigned supreme.
Gu Jian Heng had greeted Yan Chen's return with a low bow, but the glint in his eyes had spoken a different language—one of veiled disdain. His son, Gu Zhi Wei, a thin-lipped man of scheming ambition, had been notably absent from the welcome feast, a fact that did not escape notice. And the head steward, that once-stalwart servant, had been dismissed under suspicious circumstances, his departure coinciding with certain ledgers mysteriously disappearing. It seemed that coin had flowed in the dark, and it had flowed heavily—coin enough to hire the killers.
But as yet, no proof had emerged, no chain that could be linked to the guilty. Not yet.
So Gu Yan Chen turned to what he knew best: preparation.
Mu Lian, beneath the same peach tree where their first encounter had occurred, now trained in the bright sunlight. No longer was she the thief darting through shadows, her steps driven by hunger and desperation. Now, each movement was deliberate, her breath sharp, her body fluid in its grace. She wielded the wooden staff with growing mastery, then the short sword, and soon, under Gu Yan Chen's instruction, the twin daggers he had personally placed into her hands.
"Again," he would instruct her, his voice calm and steady, circling her like a predator toying with its prey. "You move well, but do you move to kill?"
Her response was always a flurry of motion, swift as a summer storm—her movements precise, her eyes sharp with focus. No longer could she be mistaken for a mere novice. Her speed was unearthly, and her skill betrayed a depth of training far beyond what she had let on.
One afternoon, after a particularly intense sparring session that had left her blade poised at his throat, Gu Yan Chen paused, meeting her gaze with the weight of years behind his own.
"You were trained by someone," he said, his voice quiet, heavy with curiosity. "Who?"
There was a hesitation—brief, almost imperceptible—before she answered softly, as if the words carried a burden too old to shed. "The White Wolf Sect."
At the mention of that name, Gu Yan Chen froze. The White Wolf Sect was little more than a ghost now, a name whispered in the shadows. Once, they had been a revered school of martial discipline, a force of honour and might—until their ill-fated rebellion against a corrupt general had led to their destruction. Most had perished in the flames of that conflict, and those few who survived had scattered like autumn leaves before a storm.
"So you were one of them," Gu Yan Chen murmured, the words leaving a strange taste in his mouth. "That explains a great deal."
Mu Lian gave a shrug, her face unreadable. "That life ended years ago. I survived by becoming someone else."
Gu Yan Chen did not press further. But from that moment on, the training between them shifted. It grew more intense, more intimate, and yet somehow quieter, as though they were each growing not only in skill, but in a deeper understanding of one another's burdens.
In that moment, beneath the weight of their silent, shared history, the air between them seemed to change—just as the air in the Gu estate had changed. Sharper. More watchful. And the path ahead seemed as uncertain as the darkening sky.