At Songji City, during the height of the lunch hour, the Pearl House hums with layered voices, clinking porcelain, and the muted strains of string music drifting between private rooms.
Inside one such room, separated by carved screens and drawn curtains, Chu Feng sits across from Yu Diexin, with Duan Yueqing beside her.
Steam rises from a teapot between them.
Chu Feng lifts his cup, takes a measured sip, then sets it down.
"Diexin," he says lightly, "I'm surprised you invited me."
Yu Diexin meets his gaze without hesitation.
"Why shouldn't I?" she replies. "You are my friend."
Chu Feng nods once, accepting the answer without probing further.
She continues, her tone lowering.
"And I have a reason for calling you."
Chu Feng tilts his head slightly, curiosity sharpening.
"Oh?" he says. "What could it be?"
Yu Diexin leans forward, closing the distance just enough that her voice drops to a whisper.
"I've found out why Prince Yuan is marrying his fifth daughter to Shen Ling."
Duan Yueqing shows no reaction; she has already heard this, but Chu Feng nearly jolts out of his seat.
"What?" he blurts, forgetting decorum.
Several diners in the outer hall glance their way.
Chu Feng leans forward, urgency flashing across his face.
"What is it?" he asks, lowering his voice but not his intensity.
Yu Diexin speaks calmly, precisely.
"Among the bride price offered to the Shen Family," she says, "are ten drops of Golden Blood Spiritual Liquid."
Chu Feng's pupils contract.
He leans back slightly, mind racing as fragments of old knowledge surface.
"Golden Blood Spiritual Liquid…" he mutters. "I've read of it, but never seen it."
He looks back at her sharply.
"What does it do?"
Diexin does not hesitate.
"It can separate the spirituality of a spiritual material for a brief moment."
The words hang in the air.
Chu Feng's expression shifts as understanding clicks into place.
"…It allows clearer comprehension of a spiritual material's essence," he says slowly. "It strips away interference."
Diexin nods.
"For a short time," she confirms.
Chu Feng exhales through his nose, fingers curling unconsciously.
"That's enough," he says. "Enough for someone stuck at a bottleneck to take the final step."
Yueqing finally speaks.
"We can kill Prince Yuan's fifth daughter," she says evenly. "But he has many daughters. He'll arrange another marriage. Or he'll exchange the liquid through another deal."
Silence follows.
Each of them understands the implication.
The liquid is not the core issue.
Prince Yuan is.
Even if they stop this marriage, the Golden Blood Spiritual Liquid will surface again. And once Prince Yuan reaches the Sublimation Realm, the balance within the Song Kingdom will tilt irreversibly.
Finally, Chu Feng speaks.
"There's only one way," he says quietly.
Both women look at him.
"We have to get Prince Yuan out of the capital."
---
That evening, after the clinic closes, Yu Diexin sits inside the Duan family carriage.
Outside, Songji City remains restless, vendors calling, lanterns swaying, pedestrians weaving through traffic as twilight deepens.
She watches the street through the half-drawn curtain, her thoughts still circling the conversation at Pearl House.
The carriage turns into a narrower street.
Too narrow.
Her instincts flare.
She hears it,
The sharp twang of bowstrings snapping taut.
Before she can fully react, arrows are punched into the carriage from all sides.
Wood splinters.
Iron tips pierce halfway through the panels, vibrating inches from her face.
In the same instant, a white cocoon erupts around her body, sealing her within a layered shell of silk-like threads.
The arrows halt mid-penetration, embedded harmlessly in the cocoon.
Outside, chaos erupts.
The carriage lurches violently.
A wet thud follows.
The driver's body slides from the seat, lifeless, blood pooling onto the stone road.
Black figures drop from rooftops.
They land soundlessly, crouched low, swords drawn, forming a loose ring around the carriage.
Their noses wrinkle.
They smell flowers.
A faint, sweet scent.
The attackers exchange quick glances, confusion flickering through their discipline.
Then,
The carriage explodes outward.
Not in fire, but in threads.
White lances burst from the cocoon in all directions, piercing flesh, pinning bodies to walls, ripping through armour.
Some attackers are killed instantly.
Others cry out as silk spears tear through limbs.
The fastest leap back, narrowly avoiding impalement.
The cocoon unfurls.
Yu Diexin steps into the open street.
In her hand is a whip, white, flexible, woven from cocoon-thread, its surface faintly shimmering.
Her eyes are calm.
Cold.
She flicks her wrist.
The whip cracks.
At the tip, the single strand splits into a dozen sharp filaments, each hardened like bone.
They shoot forward.
Two attackers are skewered through the chest.
Another loses an arm.
Steel flashes as survivors rush her.
She moves.
The whip dances.
It coils around a sword, jerks it aside, then lashes upward, cutting through a man's throat with surgical precision.
Another attacker lunges from behind.
Diexin twists, the whip wrapping around his ankle, yanking him off his feet, and slamming him into the stone road hard enough to shatter bone.
The street echoes with the clash of metal and the snapping of silk.
More arrows fly.
They dissolve midair as threads bloom, intercepting them effortlessly.
One assassin breaks formation and retreats toward an alley.
Diexin's gaze follows him.
A flick of her fingers.
A single thread pierces his spine.
He collapses, twitching.
The remaining attackers hesitate.
For a heartbeat, the street holds its breath.
That moment is enough.
Yu Diexin's wrist snaps forward.
The white whip in her hand shivers, then splits—once, twice—until three identical strands lash out in different directions, striking with surgical intent.
Three attackers react on instinct.
Steel scrapes stone as they dive aside.
The first takes a shallow cut across the ribs, blood spraying.
The second twists midair, but the whip grazes his thigh, leaving flesh blackened at the edges.
The third raises his sword just in time, the cocoon-thread wrapping around the blade and ripping it from his grip, though he stumbles back with only a torn sleeve and a bleeding shoulder.
They recover quickly.
Too quickly.
They spread out, circling her.
Their movements are disciplined, practised, and clearly trained for coordinated kills in narrow streets.
One feints from the left.
Another rushes from the right.
A third leaps from above, pushing off the wall.
Diexin does not retreat.
She inhales.
And exhales poison.
A pale mist spills from her lips and pores, blooming low to the ground like fog at dawn.
At first, the attackers do not notice.
They continue their assault.
Blades slash.
Diexin's whip snaps into a shield, threads interweaving into a curved barrier that catches steel with a ringing thud.
She pivots, the shield unravelling instantly into lances that shoot forward.
One attacker blocks, but the lance pierces through his forearm and pins him to the wall.
He screams.
The poison cloud thickens.
Seconds pass.
The attackers' breathing grows uneven.
Their movements slow—not dramatically, but just enough.
A step lands late.
A sword swing lacks power.
One man tries to circulate his Qi and falters, eyes widening in shock as the energy refuses to respond smoothly.
"Poison…" someone rasps.
Diexin moves.
The whip divides again—five strands now—each one hardening mid-flight into arrow-thick projectiles.
They shoot.
One man is struck through the throat.
Another takes a lance through the knee and collapses, screaming as the poison accelerates through his bloodstream.
A third manages to roll aside, barely avoiding impalement, but his skin has already begun to discolour, veins darkening beneath the surface.
Two attackers charge together, trying to overwhelm her through numbers.
Diexin steps into them instead of retreating.
Her whip coils around one man's waist, yanks him forward, and she uses his body as a shield.
The other's sword plunges straight through his comrade's chest.
Before he can pull free, Diexin's whip snaps upward, splitting into dozens of fine threads that slice across his face and neck.
He falls without a sound.
The street is thick with mist now.
The remaining attackers cough, stagger, their coordination unravelling.
One tries to flee.
Diexin flicks her wrist.
The whip stretches impossibly long, loops around his ankle, and slams him face-first into the stone.
She walks toward him as he struggles, eyes wide with terror.
The whip hardens.
One thrust.
Silence.
Another attacker gathers his Qi forcibly, ignoring the poison, veins bulging as he pushes past the resistance.
He roars and charges.
Diexin's whip blossoms into a layered shield again, catching his sword, absorbing the impact.
The shield shudders.
She feels the strain.
So she ends it.
The shield explodes outward, turning into a storm of silk shards that tear through his body from chest to spine.
He collapses in pieces.
The last attacker falls to his knees, shaking, poison having fully taken hold.
He looks up at her, eyes pleading.
Diexin does not slow.
The whip splits into a single narrow spike and pierces his skull cleanly.
It is over.
Yu Diexin stands alone in the middle of the street.
Bodies lie scattered around her, blood pooling, poison mist thinning as it disperses into the night air.
She exhales slowly.
Hoofbeats echo.
Shouts follow.
"City guard!"
"Seal the street!"
Relief washes through her—not enough to dull her vigilance, but enough to loosen her shoulders.
Lantern light floods the street as mounted guards ride into view, weapons drawn, eyes widening at the carnage.
Diexin lowers her whip, letting it coil back into her sleeve.
Only then does pain register.
A sharp burn flares along her upper arm.
She looks down.
Blood.
A shallow cut.
An arrow has grazed her during the chaos, slicing through flesh without embedding.
Her alertness snaps back to full.
Without hesitation, she moves, slipping behind a shattered carriage frame just as another arrow thuds into the stone where she stood moments before.
The guards shout, searching rooftops.
No more arrows come.
Minutes later, the street is secured.
Bodies are examined.
Questions are asked.
Diexin answers only what she must.
She allows herself to be escorted back toward the Duan estate, her expression composed, her sleeve stained with a thin line of red.
From a distance, one of the city guards lingers.
He waits until no one is watching.
Then he bends, retrieves the arrow that sliced her arm, and snaps off its head carefully, never touching the blood.
He places the arrowhead into a small, lacquered box and closes it.
Quietly.
Carefully.
And disappears into the night.