The mountains felt unusually quiet this morning. The breeze that usually greeted him at this height came a little late, and the sparrows that nested near the old pine hadn't begun their usual chatter. A couple of small things stood out to him, perhaps only because the usual sounds hadn't woken up yet. He brushed dust from a leaf, slipped the herb into his basket, and glanced at the valley below. Everything looked normal and calm. Nan Chenyi's father had once told him that mountains have moods too, that some days they spoke in wind and birdsong, and some days they simply rested. Today felt like a resting day. He lifted the basket and turned back to his path.
Nan Chenyi approached the main gate of the dojo, his heart steady from the morning's quiet foraging. The heavy wooden doors creaked open under his push, revealing a nightmare that shattered the morning's calm. Bodies littered the courtyard, flooded in pools of blood that gleamed darkly under the pale sun. His mother's father lay among them, lifeless eyes staring at the sky, alongside every sect member he had ever known—masters, disciples, even the kitchen hands. Horror gripped Nan Chenyi like a vice; no word escaped his paralyzed throat, his breath caught in a silent scream.
In the corner of the main hall, slumped against the bloodstained wall, lay his father—the sect leader. The man's robes, once proud symbols of authority, were torn and soaked crimson. Nan Chenyi stumbled forward, knees weak, dropping to his side. He grasped his father's cold shoulder, shaking it as if will alone could summon life. "Father... who did this?" His voice cracked, raw with anguish. "Why? What happened here?"
Tears blurred his vision, but he forced himself upright, the weight of loss igniting a desperate spark. Quietly, he ascended the upper floor, steps muffled on the creaking wood, eyes scanning shadowed corners for any sign of life. Empty rooms greeted him—only more murdered bodies, twisted in final agony. No survivors, no cries, just the metallic tang of death hanging thick in the air. Then, a voice echoed from below: boots on stone stairs, authoritative commands barking orders. King's soldiers. Their armored footsteps grew louder, ascending relentlessly.
Nan Chenyi turned to descend, but a firm hand yanked him backward into the shadows. He spun, fists raised, only to freeze at the sight of two familiar faces—Zhang Ye, the wiry boy from his training cohort, and Jiang Wuyin, the sharp-eyed girl who sparred like a storm. Shock widened his eyes; they were alive. Before he could utter a sound, Zhang Ye clamped a hand over his mouth, eyes fierce with urgency. "Shh," he mouthed, finger to lips. The soldiers reached the upper floor.
"Search every room carefully," the commander growled, his voice like grinding gravel. "Check for survivors. No mistakes."
Zhang Ye's whisper cut through the tension. "Before they spot us, we leave. Now."
"But why?" Nan Chenyi hissed, pulling free. "They're king's men. Shouldn't we ask for help?"
Zhang Ye shook his head sharply. "No time for talk. We go first—then we explain."
The soldiers fanned out, lanterns casting flickering shadows. "Commander, no one's alive up here," one reported, voice flat.
"Alright. Bag the bodies. Clean this place spotless—no trace of what happened. It never occurred."
"Yes, sir."
The trio waited, breath held, as the soldiers dragged the fallen into coarse sacks, hauling them down and out. Carts groaned under the weight, horses snorting as the procession departed, leaving the dojo a hollow shell scrubbed of its horror.
"We follow them," Jiang Wuyin murmured once the dust settled, her face pale but resolute.
Nan Chenyi nodded, rage simmering beneath his grief. The three slipped into the treeline, trailing unseen through dense underbrush and winding paths. Questions churned in his mind like a storm—why the soldiers? Why hide the massacre? Miles blurred by, the cart veering not toward the capital's spires, but a remote village cloaked in mist. Huts huddled around a central square, where a handful of figures in red masks patrolled, their cloaks whispering secrets.
"No way... those clothes!" Jiang Wuyin gasped, halting behind a boulder.
"What?" Nan Chenyi demanded, peering out.
Zhang Ye's voice was grim. "Same as the murderers. Red-masked cloaks, exact match."
Rage exploded in Nan Chenyi's chest, hot and blinding. "What now? I can't stand back—I'll kill them all! You two stay here."
Jiang Wuyin lunged, grabbing his arm with iron strength. "Wait! You know we can't fight them—not with our current power. They slaughtered everyone alone."
"Are you joking?" he snarled, wrenching free, eyes blazing. "My family, my entire sect—vanished! And you say wait? I don't care if I die. What's my life worth now? For whom do I even live?"
Zhang Ye stepped forward, voice quiet but steady as stone. "You still have us. If you get caught and killed, what then? No hope for revenge. We're all that's left."
Nan Chenyi's fury warred with despair, fists clenched until knuckles whitened. Memories flashed—his father's patient lessons, the sect's laughter during drills, the warmth of home now ash. He thought deeply, breath ragged, the weight of survival pressing down. Finally, he exhaled, shoulders slumping. "Fine. I'll stay. But we make a plan—get the bodies back, uncover the truth."
A beat of silence, then urgency returned. "Wait—one minute. Tell me what happened in the dojo. Who killed them all? Speak—now!"
Jiang Wuyin exchanged a glance with Zhang Ye, her expression darkening. "Okay, listen close..."