"Killing isn't about revenge—it's a reminder to this world: we're still alive."
—Shen
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I. The Rain Hasn't Stopped, But the Killing Game Begins
Huanshui Hall · Fire Spirit Division.
Dusk settled in, the rain had yet to fully stop. Heavy clouds pressed down upon the mountain forest, and from time to time, the wind scraped through the treetops like blades brushing past ears.
Shen hid behind the ruins of an abandoned alchemy storage shed. Mud and scraps of discarded medicine littered the ground. In his left hand, he held a thumb-sized Soul-Shearing Talisman; in his right, a short blade concealed in his sleeve. His body remained absolutely still, like a stone.
He had waited three hours.
His target—Su Ming, an inner sect lieutenant of Huanshui Hall—was about to return from inspecting the cleansing registry. He would pass this very path.
Su Ming, trusted right-hand of Mu Youlou, was a master of spirit-sense tracking and poison-fire manipulation. In a head-on confrontation, Shen stood no chance.
But this wasn't a fight.
It was an assassination.
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II. Silent Poison, a Moment to Strike
Creak—
Su Ming arrived on schedule. Cloaked in gray robes, holding a bone fan, he walked at an unhurried pace. No guards accompanied him.
On his back was a scroll of spirit inscriptions. He was flipping through it absentmindedly.
Shen held his breath. His left hand pressed a spot on the shed wall—activating a sound-sealing talisman he'd placed earlier.
In an instant, sound was vacuumed from the area. A chilling, deathly silence fell over everything.
Su Ming's head jerked up, sensing something was wrong.
But before he could activate his spirit sense—Shen moved.
Step one—splashing through the puddles.
Step two—cutting through the darkness.
Step three—closed the gap!
The Soul-Shearing Talisman slapped against Su Ming's chest!
"Gh—!!"
Su Ming's pupils shrank. His spiritual awareness spiked in pain, plunging into a momentary blank.
In that fleeting window, Shen's right hand shot forward, dagger unsheathing from his sleeve—aiming three inches below the throat, at the arterial intersection!
Shhk—!
Blade pierced flesh. A killing blow.
Su Ming opened his mouth wide—but no sound emerged. Blood and spiritual energy erupted from his throat, burning through the air.
Shen sidestepped the spray, seized Su Ming by the nape, and slammed him into the medicine-choked grass and mud.
Blood splattered his clothes like rain-painted ink.
Shen pressed fingers to the carotid.
Heartbeat: gone in seven beats.
He didn't spare a glance.
Now came the part that mattered—
fabricating the "cause of death."
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III. Truth Must Not Move, But Corpses Must Lie
Su Ming's body was posed as if he'd stumbled during a dispute with a trial medicine slave. The wound was reshaped to resemble an "accidental injury during a struggle over ingredients."
A broken herb sickle—planted from an earlier gathering run—lay beside the corpse. Shards of disrupted talismans scattered the floor, completing the scene of a chaotic mishap.
More importantly, Shen had—yesterday—anonymously sent a letter accusing Su Ming of colluding with an outside sect to smuggle trial-slave identities.
Signed: Que Lingyun, another Vice Steward.
The letter hadn't even been processed yet.
And now—Su Ming was dead.
Mu Youlou wouldn't believe it blindly. But when it came to scapegoats, he had never hesitated.
Killing was not victory.
Getting your enemy to stab his own men for you—that was victory.
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IV. The Wind Remains, Shen Stays Still
That night, Shen didn't flee.
He returned to his slave's quarters in the medicine division, sat quietly in a corner, and used a sharp needle to pierce his own fingertip. He let the blood drip—one drop at a time—onto the straw mat.
Counting the lives he had taken.
He didn't smile.
He didn't fear.
He only whispered:
> "This is the road I chose. Blood doesn't scare me."
"But I have to keep walking… until no one dares lay a hand on her again."
The wind outside whispered as always.
But from that night forward—
Huanshui Hall… would never again know peace.