The letter had arrived on wings that trembled.
It came not from a spy, nor a former contact, but a farmer—a young man from a remote valley nestled deep between the Cursed Iron Hills. His handwriting was uneven, smudged with dirt and desperation. But the message was clear.
"Please… no one listens anymore. No one speaks either. They're all afraid. Even the children."
Li Fan held the letter in his hands, reading it again beneath the light of a flickering oil lamp.
There were no accusations. No noble names. No detailed reports of crime. Just silence—and fear.
And that was enough.
By morning, Li Fan had chosen his team.
Zhao Liang, his sword arm healing but steady.
Jiao, ever the sharp eye, with her silent knives tucked beneath her sleeves.
And a new face—Yue, the blind girl who could hear the tremor in a lie as easily as others heard a drumbeat. She said little, moved like a whisper, and trained every day before dawn, alone.
"We leave before the sun reaches its peak," Li Fan ordered. "Pack light. We're not here to fight a war."
Zhao raised a brow. "But we may still find one."
The journey to the valley took three days.
They traveled under rainclouds and fog, passing silent forests and abandoned roads. There were no bandits. No travelers. Only birds that didn't sing and trees that didn't sway.
On the third evening, they reached the edge of the Whispering Valley.
And at once, Li Fan felt it.
It wasn't a physical force, not quite. More like an emptiness. A vacuum that tugged at the soul, where sound itself seemed reluctant to linger. The village houses were neat, their fields tended—but not a single voice could be heard.
No laughter. No shouting. Not even dogs barking.
As they stepped past the cracked stone gate, a child watched from behind a wooden shutter. She didn't blink. She didn't speak.
She just stared.
They were offered lodging by the village elder—a thin man with hollow cheeks, who bowed deeply but never made eye contact.
"We're honored," he said, voice almost a whisper. "No trouble here. Please, rest."
Zhao looked around. "Where are the others?"
The elder gave a weak smile. "Busy. Fields. Always busy."
He showed them to an empty guesthouse. Food was brought without words—a meal of plain rice and dried vegetables. Not a single villager lingered to speak. Not even the children.
Yue sat at the doorway, head tilted. Her pale eyes narrowed.
"They're afraid," she whispered.
"Of us?" asked Jiao.
"No." Yue shook her head. "Of something else. Something always watching."
That night, Li Fan didn't sleep.
He walked the village in silence, stepping lightly across stone paths and empty courtyards. He saw no patrols. No guards. But he felt something else—a presence that slithered just out of sight. Watching from behind curtains, from beneath floorboards, from inside closed doors.
Then he saw it.
A shadow move across a rooftop—swift, inhuman. It darted like wind, leaving no trace. Only a feeling, like ice on the back of the neck.
Li Fan gave chase, but by the time he reached the rooftop, there was nothing.
Only the sound of breathing.
His own.
And then—beneath him—a muffled sob.
He dropped silently into the alley, crouching near a thin gap in a home's wooden walls. Inside, a child clung to a woman, her mouth covered tightly. The child's eyes were wide, wild.
And burned into the wooden floor beside them… was a strange mark. A brand shaped like a twisted eye with a tail.
It pulsed faintly, as if watching.
By dawn, he gathered his team.
"There's something else here," he said. "Not bandits. Not a sect."
He looked to Yue. "What do you hear?"
She closed her eyes. "Too many silences. Voices stopped mid-sentence. The air feels… bound."
Jiao paced. "A curse? Illusion array?"
Zhao shook his head. "No sigils. No formations. It's fear. Rooted deep."
Li Fan held up a charcoal sketch of the strange brand. "We need to find the source. We find who's behind this—then we break their hold."
Jiao nodded. "You thinking interrogation?"
"No." Li Fan's voice was flat. "We observe. Then we cut the rot at its root."
That night, they scattered.
Yue stayed near the children, her ears tuned to unspoken fears.
Zhao posed as a passing trader, offering spice in exchange for stories. Few responded.
Jiao went deeper—into cellars, beneath floorboards, listening for the scratch of secrets.
Li Fan walked the village's edges, where the old shrines lay broken. That's where he found the second mark—this one etched into a statue of an old forest god. Its eyes had been gouged out. The twisted brand burned into its chest.
And beside it, half-buried in the dirt, a severed finger.
Clean cut. Fresh.
When they regrouped, it all fit together.
"This isn't a curse," Li Fan said. "It's control."
Zhao's face was grim. "Someone's using fear like a net. Not just silence—but obedience. They hurt someone, mark a place, and the villagers fall in line."
Jiao held up a scrap of cloth—black, with the twisted eye stitched in red.
"They call themselves the Silent Court," she said. "A cult. They move into small places. Remote valleys. Isolate them. Then root out resistance through terror. No announcements. No demands. Just pain—and silence."
Yue looked up. "They're here. Watching."
Li Fan's eyes narrowed. "Then we'll show them what it means to be hunted."