Night settles over Lanyin without ceremony. Lanterns are lit in careful rows, their glow reflected in canals and polished stone. Music drifts from upper floors, laughter follows wine, and deals are struck behind screens of silk. From above, the city appears unchanged—orderly, prosperous, alive. But beneath that surface, something has shifted. Zhen Yan moves through a service corridor behind the eastern market, where crates are stacked and refuse is swept away before dawn. The path is narrow, shadowed, ignored by most. His presence there draws no eyes, yet he feels them all the same.
They are watching more closely now.
He stops beneath an overhanging balcony, listening. Footsteps passing overhead, and a murmured exchange. A pause too long to be a coincidence.
An ambush, then. Zhen Yan exhales slowly. "then, so be it." Stepping forward deliberately, letting his boots scuff the stone just enough to announce himself.
In an immediate reaction, figures dropping from the balcony above, landing in practiced silence. Others emerge from the corridor ahead and behind. Six in total. All dressed in muted colors, faces uncovered and their expressions calm. They come prepared. No petals visible, simply professionals.
"You're persistent," one of them says. "That's usually a weakness."
Zhen Yan tilts his head. "You're not Blossom."
"No," the man replies. "We're better paid."
Zhen Yan's sword slides free. The clash is brief. There is no shouting. No dramatic flourish. Only movement—precise, efficient, final. Daggers flicker like passing thoughts. Steel meets steel, then parts.
Zhen Yan's sword leaves its sheath.
The sound is soft and drawn-out, like silk being pulled slowly across lacquered wood. In the confined space, it lingers, neither loud nor faint, but unmistakably present — a declaration without words.
None of the six move immediately. Instead, they spread with quiet understanding, steps neither hurried nor hesitant. Two take position before him, blades held low in orthodox guard; two drift behind, forming a loose arc that denies retreat; one ascends lightly to the railing above, crouched with effortless balance; and the last remains where he stands, facing Zhen Yan directly, posture relaxed, as though conserving breath rather than strength.
It is not a killing formation. It is instead, a containment.
Zhen Yan's gaze lowers briefly, taking in the spacing of their feet, the angle of their shoulders, the rhythm of their breathing. When he lifts his eyes again, his expression has not changed.
Then he moves with foot touching the wall beside him, then leaping himself onto the pillar, body rising as lightly as a swallow skimming water. A blade passing beneath him, cutting only empty air. Using the pillar as pivot, he turns in midair and descends in a narrow arc, sword drawing a pale line that forces the two men before him to separate or risk crossing blades with one another.
They part at once.
One advances low, dagger seeking the ribs; the other follows half a beat behind, strike aimed for the shoulder, their timing layered with careful precision.
Zhen Yan rotates his wrist.
The first attack glides along his blade and slips aside as though guided by a current. His sleeve stirs, releasing a faint glimmer. The attacker halts abruptly, breath catching, knees bending as if his strength has suddenly deserted him. He sinks down without a sound.
The second man closes the remaining distance. Too near for a clean evasion, and so Zhen Yan steps forward instead.
Their shoulders meet with a muted thud, neither violent nor gentle. His sword hand shifts by the smallest measure, guided more by placement than force. The man's posture collapses, body folding inward as he slides to the floor, movement oddly peaceful, like someone settling down to rest.
Above them, fabric whispers. The man on the railing drops, twin daggers descending in a tight, controlled strike meant to end the matter instantly. Zhen Yan does not look up. He lifts his sword behind him at an angle that seems almost absentminded.
Steel meets steel.
The attacker twists midair, attempting to pass beyond the guard and strike again upon landing — but Zhen Yan is already turning, already inside his reach. A brief contact, light as tapping dust from a sleeve, and the man lands unsteadily, takes two faltering steps, then sinks to the ground.
Three remain.
The corridor feels strangely empty, as though something essential has been removed from the air.
One of the remaining three exhales slowly. "Your reputation does not exaggerate." Turning towards the others, he commands. "Enough, take him down together." Raising his weapon at last, revealing a narrow blade darkened to dull its reflection. The remaining two shift with him, abandoning caution in favor of unity.
They advance together.
Their movements are unhurried yet relentless, blades weaving overlapping paths that deny clear escape, driving Zhen Yan backward toward the narrowest stretch of the passage. Each step is measured, each breath controlled, their coordination born not of shouted commands but of long familiarity.
Zhen Yan's sword moves not swiftly or forcefully, simply continuously. Each motion flows into the next like water circling stone, redirecting rather than opposing. Strikes slide past him by fractions of an inch, guided away by angles so slight they are almost imperceptible.
Footsteps echo once… then stop.
One attacker remains frozen mid-strike, arm lowering as though the intent behind it has vanished. The other sways, resting briefly against the wall before sliding down to sit, head bowed.
Only the one who commanded for the last attack stands. He studies Zhen Yan for a long moment, eyes clear, breath steady despite the stillness surrounding them.
"You use only what is needed," he says quietly.
Zhen Yan does not answer.
The man nods, as though confirmation has been given regardless, and steps forward.
Their blades meet. But no clash and sparks like before, only a soft contact like bamboo touching bamboo in the wind. They exchange several movements, each probing the other's balance, testing structure rather than strength, neither committing fully.
Then Zhen Yan's wrist turns. A single motion, clean and understated.
The man's eyes widen slightly not in fear, but in recognition. His weapon lowers, fingers loosening as if he has decided not to hold it any longer. He sinks to one knee, posture still upright, then grows still, and soon, silence returns deep and unbroken.
The lantern flame trembles, then steadies. Somewhere far away, a night insect resumes its song.
Zhen Yan stands alone once more, sword angled downward, breath even, expression as calm as when the encounter began. He does not look at the fallen. With a smooth motion he returns the blade to its sheath, the faint click of metal on wood echoing softly along the corridor. He does not linger for too long, leaving the bodies, and continuing his path knowing what comes next.
~~
He reaches the outer residential quarter just as a door slams shut ahead of him.
A child's cry follows. Sharp and fearful.
Zhen Yan's attention is drawn to it, stopping his steps. The sound cuts deeper than steel. He turns when the cry comes again, from a narrow alley between two houses. Lantern light spills weakly from within, shaking as someone moves.
Zhen Yan takes his steps.
A man stands inside the alley, one hand gripping a child by the arm. The child can't be more than eight, eyes wide, breath hitching. The man wears fine clothes, his expression tight with panic rather than cruelty.
"Stay back," the man snaps when he sees Zhen Yan. "This has nothing to do with you, boy."
Zhen Yan's gaze flicks to the man's sleeve. There barely visible beneath the cuff, a crest. Not a blossom, but a sigil shaped like interlocking lines.
A great family's mark.
"Let that innocent child go," Zhen Yan says.
The man laughs shakily. "You think you can command me?"
Zhen Yan takes one step forward.
"You're afraid," he says. "Not of me but of what you were told."
The man's grip tightens. "You don't understand—"
"I understand," Zhen Yan cuts in. "You were ordered to make noise to draw me out. And if you were to fail, you'd be punished."
The man's eyes darts, eyes twitching, "How—"
Zhen Yan's voice softens, just slightly. "You don't need to finish this."
The child looks up at him, tears streaking down his face. Something stirs. Unwanted, unwelcome memory.
A hand pushing him into hiding. A voice whispering: "live...Yan'er..."
Zhen Yan moves, not fast but certain.
The man stumbles back, grip loosening instinctively. Zhen Yan catches the child, pulling him free and placing him gently behind him. "Run," he says quietly. The child hesitates, and only after a few breaths does he finally run.
The man screams, but Zhen Yan does not let him finish. A simply dagger thrown directed towards his throat, a clean cut, and that is more than enough to cover the surrounding walls in red.
Later, the alley is empty. Zhen Yan stands alone with a lifeless body at a distance from him beneath the flickering lantern light. He looks down at his hands, clean and steady, but something inside him is not. Forgetting of what had happened, he leaves the district before dawn without looking back.
~~
High above the city, in a residence surrounded by inner walls and silent guards, a man listens to a report. "A child was spared," the messenger says carefully. "The target intervened."
The man's fingers pause over his tea.
"A weakness," he murmurs.
"No," another voice says from the shadows. "A fracture."
The first man smiles faintly. "Good," he says. "Then he can be guided."
Outside, dawn begins to bleed into the sky. And Zhen Yan walks east, unaware that the path ahead has narrowed—not by enemies, but by choice. And so the road narrows as Zhen Yan leaves Lanyin behind, soon comes morning mist clinging to the hills, thick and damp, curling around tree trunks and stones like fingers seeking purchase. The smell of wet earth is stronger here, sharper. There is no village, no sound of life beyond distant birds. Only the hum of the wind and the faint rustle of his own footsteps.
He carries the child's image in his mind, not as memory, but as a weight. Eight years, trembling hands, eyes wide with fear. That innocence—the thing he had sworn never to touch again, the thing that still stirs something he refuses to name.
The bamboo hat rests low over his face, and the mask hiding the shadow behind his eyes in shades, but not hiding the tension coiled in his shoulders. His sword hangs at his side. Daggers are ready in the folds of his sleeves, the red blossoms on his robes whispering faintly with each step.
The path curves downward toward a narrow gorge. Water drips from overhead rocks, carving channels into moss. He senses it before he sees it—a presence, deliberate, layered, moving with unnatural silence.
A voice comes from the shadows, soft and controlled. "You travel far, Windshadow. Not to hunt… but to provoke."
Zhen Yan tilts his head slightly. "Show yourself."
From behind a bend, a man steps forward. Robes gray, tied simply, with a staff taller than his own height. His face is lined but sharp; eyes intelligent, calculating. This is not one of the Blossom's enforcers. This is someone who moves in their orbit without touching them directly.
"I am Qiu Feng," the man says. "A guide of sorts. For those who… cannot see the full garden yet."
Zhen Yan does not lower his weapon. "A guide for who? The lost?"
"The wandering," Qiu Feng replies. "The hunters. The predators. You have started cutting threads… and now the canopy notices."
Zhen Yan's hand brushes a dagger. "Then you follow me to warn them?"
Qiu Feng tilts his head, as if considering. "I follow because your path interests me. The Windshadow is… rare. Most men break when roots bleed beneath their feet. You, however… you step forward and let them."
Zhen Yan steps closer, fog curling around his boots. "I will step on petals until the tree falls."
A faint smile touches Qiu Feng's lips. "Perhaps. But even petals grow from roots. And roots… sometimes reach deeper than we wish to see."
Before Zhen Yan can answer, the ground vibrates slightly. Not enough to knock him off balance, but enough to signal a presence far larger than the men he has already faced.
Qiu Feng notices it too. His hand rests lightly on the staff. "They've sent more than petals this time," he says. "Looks like they want to test the Windshadow personally."
From the gorge above, silhouettes appear: four men, mounted on horses. Their movements are precise, not chaotic. Silver armor glints faintly under the pale morning light. At their waists hang short swords and daggers—their insignia a crescent blossom.
"They ride for the child you spared," Qiu Feng says softly. "And for you."
Zhen Yan does not flinch. His hands move in a fluid motion, releasing two flying daggers simultaneously. Both strike the lead rider's side, unbalancing him slightly but not enough to unseat.
The remaining riders tighten formation, circling, testing. Each movement deliberate, synchronized—trained to anticipate, to trap.
"Your skill," Qiu Feng murmurs, "is precise. But you are still alone."
Zhen Yan's eyes narrow beneath the mask. He releases the sword from its sheath. The metal catches the dim light, red blossoms seeming to flare briefly along the hem of his robe. "I am never alone," he says. "Not while I hold their names in my heart."
The riders charge. The first strike is not a clash of swords but of will. Steel meets steel with sharp arcs, daggers flicker, blades sing in the air. Zhen Yan's movements are fluid, almost lazy, yet every strike cuts a calculated path. The horses rear, the riders adjust, but nothing can break the rhythm.
One falls. Another staggers. The third hesitates for an instant too long. That moment is all Zhen Yan needs.
The child's echo—imagined or real—feeds the edge in his mind. The final rider tumbles, caught by a thrown dagger that pins his cloak to a rock. He does not move again.
The gorge falls silent. The air hangs thick with mist and the faint scent of wet metal.
Qiu Feng steps forward. "You have grown stronger than I expected," he says. "And yet… mercy lingers in your shadow."
Zhen Yan turns, sheathing his sword, retrieving his daggers. "Mercy is a luxury," he says. "One I will not afford those who would harm the innocent."
Qiu Feng bows his head slightly. "Then perhaps… one day, you will see that it is also a weapon."
Zhen Yan walks past him, leaving the gorge behind. Somewhere, in the higher echelons of the great family, the news arrives: a shadow moves faster than expected, striking deeper than planned.
The garden grows uneasy. And the Windshadow walks on, petals falling, roots bleeding, closer to the truth that waits beyond blood and silk.