The Valley of Mist
The valley was cloaked in a heavy shroud of mist, so thick the trees rose like shadows from another world. The air was damp and cold, carrying the scent of moss and decay.
At the heart of the valley lay a ruin, an abandoned temple whose crumbling pillars leaned like weary giants. The roof had long since collapsed, and vines strangled the stone statues of forgotten gods.
Inside, in the broken hall where moonlight filtered through holes in the ceiling, six figures sat in a loose circle. The flicker of a single torch painted their faces in sickly gold.
The oldest among them wore the saffron robes of a monk, but his eyes betrayed the lie of holiness. Yellowed teeth showed whenever he smiled, and his long fingernails tapped against the floor with patient malice. This was Saya Yaw—the evil monk.
To his left sat a woman wrapped in silk too fine for such a forsaken place. Her sharp cheekbones and painted lips made her beautiful at first glance, but the gleam in her eyes was colder than the steel dagger hidden at her waist. This was Daw May Kha—the greedy widow. She had risen through trickery, blackmail, and seduction, and her mind was sharper than most men's swords.
Across from them sat three middle-aged men. The first was broad-shouldered with a jagged scar across his cheek. Yatkha—once a mercenary captain, now a gang leader.
His companions were brothers, ThuTa and SomLin, lean and wolfish, their arms marked with old tattoos. They spoke little but were always listening, eyes darting like hunters in the dark.
The last was a boy no older than twenty, chained at the ankles. His clothes, though torn and dirty, had once been of noble cut. His name was Thurain, son of a noble house.
The group's voices filled the temple.
"Another raid, Yatkha?"
Daw May Kha's voice was honeyed poison. She leaned forward, fingering a gold bracelet. "Your men burned the village too quickly. The treasures inside the shrine were lost in the fire. Do you know how much silver we could have gained?"
Yatkha smirked, running a thumb along the edge of his blade. "Silver can be earned again. Fear, however—fear lasts. When they hear the name Yatkha, I want peasants to tremble. That's worth more than coins."
The evil monk chuckled, voice rasping like dry leaves. "Fear feeds me as well. Their screams, their prayers as the flames swallow them… mm, sweet as incense to the gods."
Thurain clenched his fists, but his chains rattled, drawing Daw May Kha's attention.
"What's this?" she teased, tilting his chin upward. "The young lord doesn't approve of our conversation? Do noble ears hurt when they hear the truth of the world?"
Thurain spat at the floor. "You're nothing but jackals. When my house finds me, you'll all hang."
"Your house?" She stroked his cheek mockingly.
The brothers, ThuTa and SomLin, grinned wolfishly. SomLin spoke first, his voice low and coarse.
"Maybe we should cut out his tongue. Would make the nights quieter."
"No," ThuTa said, licking his teeth. "Better to keep him alive. A noble bloodline may fetch ransom… or bait. His family has lands, soldiers. We can lure them into a trap."
Yatkha leaned back, his scar twitching as he smiled. "We can bleed his family dry before we bleed him. Daw May Kha, your tongue is silver. You'll write the letter."
She smirked. "Gladly. His mother will weep her jewels out if she thinks her precious boy still breathes."
Thurain's eyes burned with hatred, but there was nothing he could do. His chains rattled again as he struggled, earning only laughter from the circle.
ThuTa raised a hand, smirking. " There's another village deeper in the valley. Rumors of hidden relics buried beneath their shrine. Treasures worth more than a hundred ransoms."
Yatkha's scarred face twisted into a grin.
"Then we strike at dawn."
The brothers chuckled, Daw May Kha licked her lips, and the monk whispered blessings to forgotten demons.
The swamp near the valley steamed under the morning mist, heavy with the stench of rot and wet reeds. The ground sucked at boots, every step a noisy struggle against the muck. A band of ten martial artists trudged in a loose line, blades and staves strapped across their backs, eyes scanning the shifting fog.
At the front strode their leader, U Tun Hla, a broad-shouldered veteran whose scarred hands never loosened from the hilt of his saber. He raised one hand, and the group slowed. His voice cut through the croak of frogs and the hiss of insects.
"Listen well," U Tun Hla said. "Our client has promised one hundred gold pieces if we find the young master alive. Dead, half the price. Fail to find him at all, and we walk away with nothing. Keep your eyes open. The valley hides more than mist."
A wiry man near the center chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow. "One hundred gold for some pampered brat? Rich people are strange. They'll toss away a fortune for one useless piece of dead meat."
The remark earned a few snickers, but another fighter — a tall woman with a glaive — shook her head sharply. "Watch your tongue. The client's ears are longer than you think. Mock the hand that pays you, and you'll end up with neither coin nor head."
"Pah," the wiry man muttered, spitting into the mud. "All I'm saying is, one hundred gold is more than ten years of raiding. We could buy land, build houses, never lift a blade again."
A younger recruit spoke up nervously. "But… if he's the young master, doesn't that mean nobles are involved? What if someone else wants him dead? What if we're caught between?"
U Tun Hla's glare silenced the boy. "That is none of our concern. We are swords for hire. The client pays; we deliver. If the client says he's worth a hundred gold, then he is worth a hundred gold. Our duty is to find him, not to question the value of his blood. Remember that."
The group pressed on, mud sucking at their boots, the fog swallowing their shapes one by one.
Inside the temple,
"We strike the hidden village at dawn,"
Yatkha said, his scarred fingers drumming on the wood. "No one else knows the path. The treasure in the valley is ours alone."
ThuTa leaned back, grinning. "And if someone outside tries to interfere?"
SomLin shrugged, tapping the side of his blade against the floor. "We handle it."
At that moment,
A soft sound carried across the mist outside — almost imperceptible, like the whisper of cloth brushing reeds. None of them turned at first, engrossed in their scheming. But the sound grew: deliberate, measured, heavy.
From the mist emerged a figure. Broad-shouldered, cloaked, carrying an axe that seemed to drink the light around it. He walked straight toward the temple, mud squelching under his boots. There was no crouch, no concealment, no hesitation. Just purpose.
ThuTa's eyes widened. "What… is that?"
"Do not move,"
Daw May Kha said, though her voice trembled slightly.
The figure's voice cut through the cold air like steel. "Who among you is Yatkha?" he called. His tone was flat, devoid of emotion, yet it carried an authority that pressed on their chests.
"I come to slay him. For my mission. From the Blood Gang."
Silence fell. The wind rustled through broken windows, carrying the scent of wet earth and rotting leaves. Yatkha's hand went to his dagger, but he did not step forward.
"You… Blood Gang?" His voice was cautious, uncertain. "You come alone?"
"Yes,"
the figure replied, stepping onto the temple floor. Mud clung to his boots, his cloak hung heavy with swamp water.
ThuTa and SomLin exchanged uneasy glances. "Is he mad?" SomLin muttered. "Who approaches like that?"
Daw May Kha's fingers brushed her dagger hilt. "No, he is not mad. He is confident — too confident."
Yatkha straightened, jaw tight. "But you face all of us."
The shadow figure's axe lifted slightly, glinting under the torchlight flickering inside the temple. "I face you because of mission: Yatkha's life. All else is noise. Step aside, and you live. Interfere, and you will die first."
Daw May Kha finally whispered, almost to herself, "A single man… and he dares walk here like a shadow of death."
Yatkha's knuckles whitened on the hilt of his dagger. "Then so be it," he said finally. "You want me? Take me. But know this — we do not yield easily."
The figure's eyes, dark and cold as obsidian, studied each of them in turn.
"Prepare yourselves."