She was not as weak as some believed; she stood alone against a world that knew no mercy.
From behind her, a calm voice spoke, devoid of any emotion:
"Are you truly happy about his death, or are you grieving, Ming?"
She pondered the question for a few seconds, then answered in a balanced tone, carrying neither joy nor sorrow:
"I do not know. He told me everything in his final days, yet I still consider him my master. Let us go now."
Her brother walked ahead first, showing no emotional movement. His steps were cold, and his eyes were always covered, revealing nothing.
He said in a quiet voice:
"You are still the same. Tomorrow, our journey begins."
Ming followed him in silence, sensing the strange stillness that surrounded him like a permanent shadow.
They reached
"Sichuan,"
a city described by everyone for its breathtaking beauty.
Mist curled between the stone buildings, and red lanterns swayed with the cold breeze.
The city teemed with life, but beneath this beauty lay something dark.
They entered a small restaurant, the scent of soup and tea filling the air. They sat in a quiet corner.
The waiter approached with a slight bow:
"How may I serve you?"
Ming answered calmly:
"Chicken soup and green tea, please."
No sooner had the waiter left than several rough-looking men entered.
Their clothes were torn, and their eyes were arrogant.
The eldest among them stepped forward, grabbing the waiter by his collar:
"Yun Hai! Where is the money you promised me?"
The waiter stammered, his voice trembling:
"Sir, your followers come every day... no one dares to enter my restaurant anymore."
The man gave a coarse laugh:
"Do you want to deprive my men of food and drink?"
He punched him hard in the stomach. The waiter fell to the ground, and Ming's plates shattered before her.
She stood up slowly, approached him, and helped him sit:
"Are you alright?"
He said with difficulty:
"My lady, please, do not interfere... this man cannot be stopped."
The leader approached, his hands thick, smelling of blood and sweat. He gripped her shoulder harshly:
"A beautiful lady like you shouldn't waste her time here. Come with us; you'll be good entertainment for my men."
At that moment, her brother moved, quiet as a shadow. He did not raise his voice, nor did he move quickly, showing no emotion—yet he was fully present.
He said in a low voice:
"Remove your hand from her before I sever it."
The man laughed hoarsely:
"And who are you to stop me?"
He received no answer. In a sudden flash, he fell to the ground, his severed tongue twitching between his trembling fingers.
Ming had moved without anyone noticing; her black-silver sword shimmered in the light as she sheathed it calmly:
"Disgusting. Now I have to wash my clothes again."
Her brother remained standing, neither smiling nor staring, his covered eyes reflecting absolute coldness.
He said:
"You should have left him to me."
Ming replied with equal coldness:
"He wasn't worth your effort."
The leader's followers roared and raised their swords.
Her brother drew his strange metallic weapons from his back; they moved around him like living beings, and terror began to surround them.
He said in a cold voice:
"Sister, take their leader... and leave the rest to me."
Ming replied:
"Agreed. Whoever finishes them first wins."
The battle began.
Ming moved with lethal grace, every step calculated, her sword cutting mercilessly.
As for her brother, he was calm and reserved. Every movement was deadly with terrifying precision, showing no trace of anger or pleasure.
His weapons spun around him, coiling around his opponents and tearing them apart silently, as if they were a part of him.
After a few moments, he raised his right hand and said in a low voice:
"Technique: White Hole."
A circular hole of faint light appeared, swallowing all the corpses and blood. The place returned to how it was—clean and quiet.
Ming approached the waiter, who was still lying on the floor:
"Are you alright, Mr. Yun?"
He answered in a faint voice:
"Thank you both... I don't know how to repay the favor."
Her brother said without a glance:
"Two rooms for two days."
The waiter bowed quickly:
"As you wish, and I will handle the cost."
Ming said:
"No need, we will pay."
Her brother noticed the wounds on the waiter's body and said coldly:
"Your internal injuries will not heal easily. Sit."
Yun sat down, frightened. After a few minutes, his breathing calmed and his strength returned, without receiving a single smile or warm word from Ming's brother.
At night, silence fell over the city.
Ming woke up to faint whispers. She rose, gripped her sword, and slipped out into the corridor.
She saw shadows moving over the rooftops—masked men carrying bags of gunpowder and matches.
(She thought to herself)
"Who are these people? And why are they here?"
She followed them silently, her eyes tracking every movement, but she did not strike.
Elsewhere, on the roof of an old house in a Sichuan neighborhood, a drunken man sat drinking slowly, his eyes carefully but sporadically watching the street below.
He saw the masked men placing things on the ground and lighting matches, then vanishing into the shadows, leaving a small light glimmering in the dark.
A terrifying scene—the calm before the storm. Smoke rose as the city shook with horrific explosions. Multiple explosions rocked Sichuan.
---
To be continued...