The Inner Hall rises ahead like a mountain trapped in stone and shadow. Its walls are carved with petals, intertwined vines, and dragons that coil upward as if reaching for the sky. Lanterns hang at every corner, their light dancing across polished floors, revealing the glint of hidden blades and silent eyes watching from above.
Zhen Yan steps into the plaza before the hall. The air is thick, carrying the scent of incense and iron, mingling with the faint metallic tang of old blood. He feels the threads stretch taut around him, the invisible pull of watchers and manipulators alike. Every step is deliberate, measured, the red blossoms of his robes swaying like warning flags.
From the shadows emerge three figures, the elite of the Inner Court. Their movements are precise, fluid, yet unyielding—masters trained not only to kill, but to control, to intimidate, to manipulate the battlefield itself. Their masks shimmer faintly under the lantern light, painted with twisting vines and curling petals, each symbol a sigil of authority within the garden.
"You are far from your shadowed paths, Windshadow," the tallest says, voice calm, controlled, a hint of amusement in the tone. "Do you understand where you stand?"
Zhen Yan tilts his head as the bamboo hat follows. "I stand where petals fall, and I will cut them all...root to bloom."
The three move simultaneously. Not a word, not a pause. Steel flashes, arcs singing faintly in the night air. Zhen Yan's daggers spin, weaving through the first assault, catching one blade, deflecting another, each movement flowing into the next. The sword arcs in tandem, slicing clean lines precisely, deliberately and deadly.
One enforcer lunges from the side, aiming for a quick strike at his shoulder. Zhen Yan steps lightly, dagger spinning outward to intercept the blade. A second blade sweeps from behind. He pivots, sword flashing, catching it at the hilt, forcing the man backward. The third enforcer adapts quickly, spinning low to strike his legs—but Zhen Yan jumps, blade slicing a line across the air, forcing retreat.
Qiu Feng watches from the balcony above, staff resting lightly, expression calm. "Skill alone will not break them," he murmurs. "You must bend strategy, patience, and fury together."
Zhen Yan's movements become a storm in miniature, flowing seamlessly between attack and defense. Daggers hum as they spin outward, swords flash, shadows of petals flying with every strike. He will not kill unless necessary—each blow measured, each opponent evaluated, each movement leaving a mark without waste. Yet with every clash, every deflection, he feels the weight of memory pressing on him. The Zhen Family, his adoptive parents, faces of those he could not save, lives erased by silk, shadow, and blades. The rage that has fueled him for months simmers beneath the mask, simmering with a quiet precision.
The tallest enforcer breaks from the coordinated attack, stepping forward with a leap, spinning blade overhead. Zhen Yan's dagger arcs in response, catching the blade midair. Steel bites, sparks fly, and for a heartbeat, the world narrows to the sound of metal and the sway of blossoms at the hem of his robes.
"You fight well," the enforcer says, voice low, sharp. "But fury alone will not reach the Root. It cannot undo what has already been sewn."
Zhen Yan presses forward, blade spinning, dagger catching another strike. "Then I will cut through the threads," he replies, voice low and cold. "One by one."
Two enforcers retreat, recognizing the precision and unyielding force behind each movement. The tallest hesitates. In that instant, Zhen Yan shifts—dagger spinning toward the weapon, sword flashing, a perfect combination of speed and control. The enforcer staggers, forced backward, unsteady, breathing heavy beneath the mask.
"Mercy," Zhen Yan mutters under his breath. "Not for the guilty, not for the manipulators… only for the innocent."
A soft shuffle from the balcony draws his attention. Qiu Feng steps closer, watching silently, eyes unreadable. "Even the storm can be guided," he says. "Even shadows have their limits. Remember… every choice carries weight."
Zhen Yan straightens beneath the mask, scanning the plaza. The Inner Hall looms ahead, guarded by more enforcers beyond, their numbers growing, yet none can deter the storm that moves with silent intent. Somewhere beyond, the Root waits. The one who orchestrated the Zhen Family's annihilation—the architect who thinks themselves untouchable.
And Zhen Yan steps forward, red blossoms trailing, daggers spinning, sword ready, merciless and patient, to confront not only those who protect the garden but the twisted canopy itself.
The petals fall heavier now, a storm gathering at the edge of the city.
The Inner Garden watches as the Windshadow approaches. The main hall of the Inner Garden soon rises before Zhen Yan like a monolith of polished stone and carved petals. Lanterns flicker along the wide steps, casting a lattice of light and shadow that stretches across the courtyard. The air is thick with incense, musk, and something older—something darker, the faintest trace of death lingering in its scent. Zhen Yan pauses at the base of the steps, bamboo hat low, ghost mask concealing the fire in his eyes. The red blossoms along his robe seem almost alive, brushing the stone with silent warning. Daggers spin lightly from his sleeves, a prelude to the storm he carries with him.
Sensing the presence before he sees it: the master of the Inner Court, a figure whose reputation precedes even the whispers of the great family. Tall, broad-shouldered, his movements controlled, precise, every breath deliberate. The mask he wears is ornate, a pattern of entwined petals and thorns, eyes shadowed beneath its curves.
"You walk far, Windshadow," the figure says, voice smooth, almost melodic, yet carrying an undercurrent of menace. "Even petals fear the roots. Yet here you stand, daring to cut at them anyway."
Zhen Yan steps onto the courtyard, boots clicking faintly against the stone. "I do not fear roots." Lowering his gaze, "I fear only the lives of the innocent."
The master tilts his head. "You are unusual, even among predators. Mercy… in the shadow of vengeance. It is a choice most cannot afford."
"Choice is irrelevant," Zhen Yan replies. "Only consequence matters."
Without another word, the master moves. Not with haste, but with intent, a calculated approach that radiates authority. The ground itself seems to respond to him, the air thickening, almost bending around his form.
Zhen Yan spins, daggers whistling through the air, catching the first strike before it lands. Steel arcs, collides, and sparks hiss faintly as swords meet. Every movement is deliberate, precise, each strike and parry a dance of lethal grace.
The master attacks in a rhythm Zhen Yan has not felt before—a pulse in the air, subtle shifts, feints within feints. Even the red blossoms at his robe's hem seem to move in response, brushing against steel and air alike. Zhen Yan's mind sharpens, focusing on the pattern, the flow, the intent behind each strike.
A pause. Then, the master takes his steps back, voice low, almost a whisper. "You are skilled. But skill without understanding is nothing. You fight the consequences, not the architect. And the architect sees all, hears all, manipulates even mercy itself."
Zhen Yan's grip tightens on his sword. "Then I will cut through the manipulation. One by one, petal by petal."
Steel flashes again. Daggers spin, striking weapons aside, deflecting, intercepting. Zhen Yan flows between attack and defense, a storm contained within the precision of motion. His body moves as if guided by instinct itself, each step measured, each strike calculated.
For a heartbeat, the master falters, misjudging the angle. A dagger arcs, striking near the shoulder, drawing the faintest graze. Not enough to harm, but enough to signal that even the architect's agents are not infallible.
"You cut deeper than I expected," the master admits, stepping back again. "But this is only the outer garden. The canopy awaits, and it is woven thicker than steel, darker than shadow."
Zhen Yan straightens, daggers spinning to rest at his sides. His sword hums faintly, the red blossoms along his hem catching the lantern light. "Then I will reach the canopy," he says softly, yet every word carries weight. "And I will burn it down if I must."
A silence falls over the courtyard, thick and heavy. Somewhere deep within the main hall, someone listens—someone who orchestrated every petal, every blade, every life erased.
The Windshadow walks forward, leaving the courtyard behind, petals falling faster, heavier. The storm gathers, and the great family's canopy shivers under the first true gust of its approaching reckoning.
Qiu Feng watches from the balcony above, staff resting lightly. His gaze is unreadable. "You will confront the canopy soon," he murmurs to himself. "But know this: mercy is both your weapon and your chain. Choose which to wield carefully."
Here, Zhen Yan moves onward, silent, and relentless as the Inner Garden awaits...