The banquet had ended, but the tension remained.
Han Li quietly walked along the moonlit path behind the Hall of Records. Each step was measured, as if he walked through memory instead of stone.
Behind him, three shadows emerged—hooded figures cloaked in dark talismans. Assassins.
"You shouldn't have returned," one said coldly.
Han Li didn't turn. "Yet here I am."
They attacked in silence—swift, blades glinting with void qi. These weren't amateurs. They moved with the precision of old killers.
But Han Li?
He only raised the broom.
CLANG!
One assassin's blade shattered upon impact. The force of Han Li's counter sent him tumbling, bones cracking on the pavement.
The second struck from behind.
Han Li vanished.
A gust of wind scattered fallen leaves.
He reappeared behind them, expression calm. A single sweep of his broom drew a blood arc through the air. The third assassin collapsed, clutching his chest, eyes wide with disbelief.
The last, trembling, dropped his weapon.
"W-We didn't know… They said you were just—"
"A janitor?" Han Li finished, stepping closer.
The man nodded rapidly.
Han Li leaned in.
"That's the problem with rumors," he said. "They stop people from thinking."
With a tap on the forehead, the assassin fainted. Han Li caught him gently, laid him against a tree, and erased his memories with a subtle flick of spiritual energy.
"I only kill when I must," he murmured.
But far above, in the Observation Hall, Elder Mu had watched it all through a scrying mirror.
He turned pale.
"He's not hiding his strength anymore... The Sect won't survive if this continues."
Far away, the masked man laughed in the wind.
"So, the janitor sharpens his fangs again. Good."