The wind howled over the northern cliffs, dragging snow in thin sheets across the darkened sky. Wei Lian stood alone beneath a crooked pine, its bark stripped by time and lightning. Distant roars from spirit beasts echoed faintly, like cries of ancient ghosts mourning what had just been buried beneath the frost.
Liu Wen's body was gone now. Fed to the night. Erased without trace.
The blood, however, still clung to Wei Lian's boots.
He stared at the prints he'd left in the snow and exhaled slowly. Then he bent to gather the last remnants of the poison vial he'd used. Crushed glass glinted faintly under moonlight. He brushed it aside with the edge of his sleeve and buried it with a scoop of earth, scattering fresh snow to mask the disturbance.
No evidence. No mistake.
"Two wasn't enough," he muttered.
He turned, cloak snapping as the wind rose again, and descended from the slope like a whisper. His pace never quickened. Stillness dripped from him like oil—oiled steel hidden beneath a peasant's robes.
By the time he reached the outer sect courtyard, other disciples were already moving about with early morning groans. Wei Lian merged among them with perfect ease—head down, expression soft, hands tucked modestly into his sleeves.
No one looked twice at him.
No one ever did.
Except one.
Lin Yu shuffled toward him from behind a half-frozen pillar, breath fogging in the chill air. His eyes darted nervously.
"Wei Lian…" he whispered.
Wei Lian looked up, the faintest smile touching his lips. "Speak."
Lin Yu leaned in. "The others—they're starting to whisper about all the… accidents. They're afraid."
"Fear is good," Wei Lian said softly. "Fear makes people stupid. Stupid people make mistakes."
Lin Yu hesitated. "But if Elder Mu starts to notice…"
"He already has."
That shut Lin Yu up fast. His eyes widened, color draining from his face.
Wei Lian nodded, voice calm. "He thinks I'm loyal. A quiet disciple cleaning up trash. That's how it begins."
He turned, leading Lin Yu down the path to the supply depot where old training weapons were stacked in racks. There were fewer eyes here. Less chance of interruption.
"I need more names," Wei Lian said, voice quiet. "And I need to know where Elder Mu stores his private ledgers."
Lin Yu blinked. "Ledgers?"
Wei Lian crouched and ran a hand along the cracked spine of a training sword, dusting it with a fingertip.
"People record debts. Alliances. Secrets. If I can read the book, I can rewrite the story."
Lin Yu swallowed hard. "I'll try."
"No," Wei Lian said. "You'll succeed."
Later that afternoon, Wei Lian returned to the back slopes of the sect—where sharp crags and thin mist guarded the hidden alcove he'd turned into a private training ground.
There, he moved with focused rage.
Fists split the air.
Feet crushed frozen soil.
Elbows cracked like snapping bones.
He imagined each strike as a name on his list.
Chen Song.
Liu Wen.
Sun Bo.
He didn't count the hits.
He didn't need to.
The bruises along his arms sang the rhythm for him.
He moved to bladework next.
The battered sword hissed as it sliced through invisible throats.
He remembered Liu Wen's expression—the twitch of fear in his eyes before the poison took hold, before the knife slid cleanly through flesh.
Weak. Too slow.
Wei Lian's blade sang a different tune now.
By nightfall, he lay stretched on the cold ground, steam curling from his sweat-drenched skin. He watched the stars without blinking.
"Not enough," he whispered.
"I'm still too slow."
The next morning, he returned to the dining hall with deliberate calm. Conversations fluttered like birds trapped in a cage.
"Another disappearance?"
"They say Liu Wen never returned to the dorms."
"Second one this month."
Wei Lian sat alone, chewing slowly.
He let the fear spread.
It would fertilize the ground.
Elder Mu's assistant appeared near the edge of the courtyard. His sharp eyes scanned the disciples with annoyance, calling out names for inspection.
When he paused at Wei Lian, the boy bowed deeply.
"Disciple Wei," the assistant said, voice surprisingly neutral, "Elder Mu wishes to see you."
A few disciples turned their heads.
Wei Lian's voice was low and deferential. "Of course."
Inside the elder's quarters, incense burned thick and sweet. The scent masked something… rotten underneath.
Elder Mu sat behind a lacquered desk, fingers steepled. His eyes, dark as coals, studied Wei Lian without blinking.
"You've been diligent," the old man said. "Quiet. Obedient. And yet…"
Wei Lian bowed again. "And yet?"
"You rise. And others fall. Strange timing."
"I train harder," Wei Lian answered evenly. "I do not complain. I obey every order."
"And still… people vanish."
Wei Lian kept his eyes down. "People fall behind. I've been lucky."
A pause. Then:
"Luck is earned," Elder Mu said. "I like that."
He reached into a drawer and tossed Wei Lian a sealed scroll.
"Deliver this to the Cold Root Pavilion."
Wei Lian caught it with both hands.
"Am I to open it?"
"No. But you are to watch the recipient's reaction. Carefully."
Outside the quarters, Wei Lian allowed a cold smile to form.
A test.
He passed the first one.
Now it was time to begin preparing for the next kill.
Lin Yu met him that evening in the shadow of the moon gates.
"I found the ledgers," he whispered. "Locked. But I saw Elder Mu's assistant stash the key under the incense altar."
Wei Lian nodded slowly.
"Good."
He passed Lin Yu another pouch.
"Be ready."
"For what?"
Wei Lian's voice was ice.
"To bury another name."
And so the wind howled again across the mountains.
A blade was sharpened.
And in the silence of night, Wei Lian marked another page of his dark scripture.
One corpse at a time.