In the grand hall of the Seven Peaks Sect, silence pressed against the air like a blade at the throat.
The elders sat in a half circle, their robes of silk and jade embroidered with the symbol of their sect—a mountain split into seven jagged ridges. Incense burned thick, coiling toward the high ceiling.
At the center, kneeling on the cold stone floor, was a trembling disciple. Blood stained his sleeves, his lips quivered as he forced the words out.
"C-Chief Wu Han… is dead."
A murmur rippled through the hall. Elder Xun's eyes narrowed, his long fingers tapping against his armrest. "How?"
The disciple swallowed hard. "His hut was found drenched in blood. His guards slain. His head—gone. No one saw the killer enter, no one saw him leave. Only silence… and death."
Another elder leaned forward, voice sharp. "A beast attack?"
The disciple shook his head rapidly. "No. Clean cuts. Precision. Not claws, not fangs. It was a blade. A human hand."
The room grew colder.
At the far end of the hall, high upon the dais, the Sect Master stirred. He was a man of middle years, face smooth yet eyes ancient, carrying the weight of countless battles. His presence pressed against every soul in the chamber, invisible yet suffocating.
"A blade," he murmured, voice low, dangerous. "Then it was no accident. Someone dares to strike our allies under our shadow."
Elder Xun bowed deeply. "Sect Master, allow me to lead an investigation. This assassin must be found. If we let such insolence spread, others will think the Seven Peaks can be defied."
But another elder raised his hand, lips curling in disdain. "Perhaps this is the work of rival sects. The Moon Lotus has been restless. Or the Scarlet Cloud—they thirst for chaos. Why leap to conclusions?"
The Sect Master's gaze cut through them all. "You are wrong. This is not the hand of a rival sect. I can feel it." He rose slowly, his robes whispering like storm winds. "This is the hand of vengeance."
The disciples shivered as his voice carried across the hall, cold and absolute.
"Find the killer. Hunt the shadows. Whoever this blade belongs to… they seek blood. And if left unchecked, their path will one day reach our mountain."
Far from the hall, within a private chamber lit only by a single lantern, Elder Xun met with a man cloaked in black.
"You heard the orders," Xun said, his eyes glinting. "The Sect Master fears a shadow rising. I want it found."
The cloaked man bowed. "If the rumors are true, Sect Master is right to be wary. They say a survivor walks among the broken clans. A boy whose blade refuses to die."
Xun's expression sharpened. "A boy? What can a boy do against us?"
The cloaked man's smile was thin, sharp. "Sometimes… it is not the blade's wielder that matters. It is the hatred driving it."
Back in the grand hall, the Sect Master stood alone, gazing at the seven ridges carved into the stone wall. His eyes were dark, unblinking.
Somewhere beyond these mountains, a broken blade was rising. He could feel it.
And when it reached them, blood would drown the peaks.