Chapter 7: Night Knives at the Willow
The moon poured milk on terraces of herbs. Under the crooked willow, the air thickened—someone pressed against his ward.
Qin Mo's eyes opened. He stayed still until the intruder's breath synced with the tree's wind. Three shadows slid through the grass, blades swallowing starlight, masks stitched with crude sigils.
"Quick," the lead hissed. "Take the egg."
Qin Mo flicked a pebble. The Seven-Pebble Net woke like a spider in dew. Lines no eye could see stitched root to rock; the first shadow's ankle kissed a line and snapped tight. He cursed, slashing. His blade rebound as if the air were rubber.
The second shadow lunged for the nest. Qin Mo moved like dust in a draft—there, gone—appearing in front of the reaching hand. Soft Flow Palm met tendon. The hand went limp. He slid past, heel skimming grass, body a hinge. Elbow. Throat. The shadow gagged and crumpled.
The third wove a wind talisman and hurled it; gale roared at Qin Mo's face. He stepped into its belly and set his foot on the wind's turning tooth. He rode it sideways, let it spend itself against the willow's bark, and drew two lines with his toe—ugly, shallow, perfect.
The ground didn't buckle. It sighed. Roots shifted. The third man sank to shin in earth and howled.
Ao Ling burst from the nest with a chirp that wanted to be a roar, puffing a breath of cold azure mist at the leader's blade. Frost spidered along steel. The man recoiled, eyes widening. "Dragon—!"
Qin Mo's fingers tapped the man's wrist twice. Bones sang. The blade fell. A knee flicked, an ear rang, a body folded. Silence visited.
He dragged the three into the ward and stripped them of talismans. Their badges bore no names—only a stitched crescent. The leader's pouch held a sliver of silver thread, faint scent of rain clinging to it.
Qin Mo's jaw hardened. He bound their meridians with willow fiber, pinned them under the tree, and waited for dawn.