The lanterns flickered like captive fireflies, their golden light spilling across the makeshift stage as the sword troupe took their positions. The air hummed with anticipation, thick with the scent of burning incense and the faint metallic tang of polished blades.
Jian Heian stood at the edge of the formation, his fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword. The weight of it, usually so familiar, felt foreign tonight, as if the leather-wrapped grip might dissolve into smoke at any moment.
His eyes darted to the cultivators seated at the front, three youths barely older than him, their robes pristine white, their expressions a mix of boredom and condescension.
The youngest of the cultivators, a girl with a braid coiled like a serpent over her shoulder with a hairpin at the top, leaned forward, her expression flickering with reluctant interest. But the two boys beside her did not share the same sentiment as they whispered to one another, their eyes tracking the people in front with pure amusement.
Yet, it was the older cultivator who held Jian Heian's attention. The man sat perfectly still, his robes a deep, unbroken black, his face carved from stone. His eyes, half-lidded, watched the performance with the dispassionate gaze of a man observing ants scurry beneath his boot. There was no admiration there. No awe. Only the quiet arrogance of someone who had long since decided nothing here could impress him here.
Luo Zhen nudged him with an elbow, his voice a low murmur beneath the rustling of the crowd. "Breathe, idiot. You look like you're about to faint."
Heian shot him a quick glare, but the older boy's smirk was oddly grounding. "I-I'm not. You are just imagining things." he hissed.
"Liar." Luo Zhen flicked his forehead, just hard enough to sting. "But if you mess up, I'll tell everyone you sleep with a stuffed rabbit."
Heian's face burned. "I don't—!"
But, before Jian Heian could fully mutter his answer, Wang Hui's voice cut through the chatter like a sharp blade. "Begin."
Then, immediately, the first note of the guqin trembled in the air like a drop of water striking a still pond, making the world hold its breath.
Surprisingly, Jian Heian's blade lifted as if drawn upward by invisible strings, its tip catching the lantern light in a quicksilver flash. Around him, the troupe moved as one living organism, thirty-five bodies becoming thirty-five shadows, thirty-five shadows becoming a single flowing entity.
Their swords whispered through the humid night air, leaving behind trails of ghost-like light that lingered just long enough for the mortal eye to follow before vanishing like morning mist.
This was no mere performance. This was the Last Dance of the Silver Heron, their most impressive dance, passed down through generations of their troupe. Each movement telling the story of the mythical bird's last flight, its desperate struggle to touch The Heavens one final time, right before its wings were clipped by The Gods.
And, amidst all of this, Jian Heian's body remembered what his mind could not. His feet traced ancient patterns in the newly built stage: three steps forward, a pivot on the ball of the left foot, the right leg sweeping backward in an arc that made his robes flare like ink spilled in water. His sword arm extended, the blade becoming an extension of his very bones as it painted silver crescents in the air.
To his left, Luo Zhen moved with the lethal grace of a stalking panther, his every motion containing barely restrained power. When their blades crossed with a sound like wind chimes kissing, the vibration traveled up Heian's arm and settled in his teeth.
Then, right at the peak of their performance, he saw it. A glint of mischief in the smirk of the young cultivator boy. The flick of his wrist was so subtle it could have been missed.
A small rock, infused with a whisper of qi, shot toward Jian Heian's feet, resulting in his next step landing wrong. The rock struck his ankle, sending a jolt of pain up his leg. His balance faltered, causing him to fall while his sword wavered.
The ground rushed up to meet him, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. The music stuttered. The dance fractured.
A laugh rang out, loud and mocking. The boy cultivator who'd thrown the rock leaned forward, his grin widening. "Pathetic," he drawled. "This is what passes for skill among mortals?"
The girl beside him frowned but said nothing while the other boy only chuckled. "Well, Meilin? Was it worth begging Master for three nights just to see these mongrels making fools of themselves?"
Li Feng snickered, nudging her shoulder with his. "I told you-"
But before he could finish, Xu Meilin's jade hairpin trembled as she clenched her fists. "Shut up."
Long Qing smirked, twirling the stolen practice sword in his hand. "Oh, but we should thank you. This was the most entertaining part of our mission, watching gutter rats like yourself playing at being warriors." He leaned in, his breath hot against his ear. "Tell me, did you actually hope you'd impress us?"
Jain Heian's vision swam. He scrambled to his knees, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword, wanting to grab its handle.
Long Qing's grin remained, sharp as a blade's edge, his voice a low, mocking drawl. "Hand it over," he said, the words dripping with amusement and menace. "That sword doesn't belong in the jaws of a stray mutt who can't tell steel from a bone."
His gaze flickered to the trembling fingers curled now around the hilt, and his smile widened, cold and predatory. "And since you've proven yourself unworthy of holding it… Perhaps I'll relieve you of that pathetic hand as well. A fitting lesson, don't you think?"
The words struck deeper than the rock. Heian's head snapped up, his gaze darting wildly to Luo Zhen, to Wang Hui, to the troupe members who stood frozen, their faces etched with pity but their mouths sealed shut. No one moved. No one spoke. The silence was worse than any shout.
The cultivator's sneer blurred before him, warping into the trader's grin, the sneer of the man who'd bartered him for a crust of moldy bread.
"Well?" Long Qing's voice slithered through the haze. "I won't ask again." He flicked his fingers, making a sword appear out of thin air, its tip glinting with a thread of malicious qi. "Extend your hand, mongrel. Let's see if you can learn."
The troupe's silence was a living thing, choking. Wang Hui's jaw was like stone, his eyes burning, but he didn't move. Couldn't move, not against cultivators. Not when all their lives were on the line.
A single hot tear traced the curve of Jain Heian's cheek, then another. He didn't wipe them away. And, slowly, trembling, he lifted his left hand, palm up after gently putting his sword down. The gesture of a beggar. The posture of surrender. The face of an abandoned kid once again.
Seeing this, Long Qing's laughter crested like a wave, sharp and unbridled, before a blade sliced through the air with a silvered gleam, "Good Dog," he called, the words dripping with a mockery as cold as the steel in his hand.
But, right before the sword could reach its target, before its edge could bite into Jian Heian's flesh, the world exploded.