The doors of the main hall stand before Zhen Yan like the jaws of a beast. Polished wood carved with spirals of petals and thorns, gilded edges that gleam faintly in the lantern light, and the faint hum of guards moving behind them. Every footstep echoes against the stone steps leading up, and every breath of wind carries the weight of centuries of power.
Zhen Yan pauses. His eyes sweep the hall, noting every shadow, every reflection and every motion that might betray a blade or a watcher. Red blossoms along his robe flicker like embers, tracing his path silently, a warning written in movement.
He steps forward, pushing the door open with a faint creak, and the hall stretches beyond expectation. Marble floors polished to a mirror, columns carved into intertwining petals that rise to support the ceilings, the scent of incense strong but masking something fouler beneath—corruption, decadence, the faint stink of old blood. Inside, the architect waits. The one who orchestrated the annihilation of the Zhen Family. The figure sits upon a high dais, robes flowing like water, mask ornate, eyes hidden but presence undeniable. Around them, courtiers and Inner Court enforcers stand silent, disciplined, like statues frozen in anticipation.
"You come far, Windshadow," the architect says, voice smooth as silk yet sharp as a blade. "I wondered how long it would take before petals realized the roots run deeper than memory."
Zhen Yan steps into the hall, dagger spinning lightly, sword half-drawn. "You orchestrated the night my family fell," he says, voice low, deliberate. "All of them—dead. Every petal you destroyed. Every name you erased. Tell me… why?"
The architect tilts their head, almost amused. "Why Because power is a garden, Windshadow. And gardens must be pruned. Weak stems, fragile families, those who cling to life without merit… they fall to make room for the strong. Your adoptive family… they were simply a weed I chose to remove."
Zhen Yan's fingers tighten around his sword. Every muscle in his body coils, ready. "Weed? They were flesh and blood. They raised me. They loved me. And you burned them for sport."
A ripple passes through the hall. Courtiers shift, but none move openly. The architect smiles faintly. "Sport? Perhaps. But also… necessity. The balance of power is delicate, and I prefer it in my design."
Zhen Yan steps closer, red blossoms brushing the floor. "Necessity does not excuse murder. You will pay for every life you stole."
The architect rises, slow, deliberate. Robes swaying, mask catching the lantern light. "And you… Windshadow. You have grown strong. But even your mercy will not protect you. Every step you take toward vengeance tightens the thread you walk. One misstep, and the roots will crush you."
Zhen Yan exhales beneath the mask. "Then I will step carefully. Or cut through it."
The first strike is not spoken. It is a movement so fast, so precise, that the air itself seems to slice. Zhen Yan pivots, dagger flicking to intercept, sword spinning in a deadly arc. The clash is immediate—steel against steel, sparks igniting the air.
The architect moves with an elegance that belies lethality. Every strike is calculated to test, to probe, to unravel. Zhen Yan counters with rhythm and precision, each dagger thrown and caught in a dance of steel.
"You fight well," the architect murmurs. "But your fury… your mercy… it will both save and betray you."
Zhen Yan's hand moves, spinning dagger, sweeping sword, slicing the space between them, cutting threads in the web of control surrounding the architect. The Inner Court enforcers hesitate, then withdraw, recognizing the storm that moves with silent intent.
A pause. Both combatants stand, measuring. Petals drift down from the carved ceiling, almost like a mockery of innocence.
"You think you understand the canopy," the architect says softly. "But you have only seen the outer branches. The roots… the roots reach to places you cannot imagine. Places even you… Windshadow… might bleed to reach."
Zhen Yan tilts his head beneath the ghost mask, eyes sharp. "Then I will bleed. And when the roots fail to stop me… I will cut them myself."
A tense silence fills the hall. The petals swirl in the wake of their motion, red blossoms echoing along Zhen Yan's robes. The first true confrontation with the architect is underway. Not just of skill—but of wills, of ideologies, of vengeance and mercy, each clashing like steel in the stillness of the hall.
And in that silence, one thought echoes through Zhen Yan's mind: every root can be cut. Every canopy can be felled. Every life stolen… avenged.
The storm gathers in the main hall just before the Windshadow strikes first.
The hall trembles in silence, as if holding its breath. The petals carved into the stone ceiling seem to shiver in anticipation. Lanterns flicker, shadows elongating and twisting across polished floors. Zhen Yan stands beneath them, bamboo hat low, ghost mask hiding the fire in his eyes. His sword rests lightly at his side, daggers spinning softly in his sleeves, red blossoms along his hem tracing silent warnings.
The architect steps forward, robe flowing, mask glinting faintly under the lantern light. Every movement is deliberate, every step measured. "You strike boldly, Windshadow," they say, voice smooth, venom beneath silk. "But boldness without understanding is a blade that cuts its wielder."
Zhen Yan tilts his head, calm but deadly. "I have no need to understand. I have only need to act."
With a motion almost too fast to follow, the architect strikes. Steel flashes, slicing the air with intent, precision, and force designed to test, to break, to intimidate. Zhen Yan pivots, daggers whistling through the air, deflecting the first strike, while the sword spins in an elegant arc, slicing a path to counterattack. Sparks hiss as steel meets steel. Each strike is deliberate, a probing of weakness, a test of reaction. The architect moves like water—fluid, unyielding, constantly shifting—yet Zhen Yan moves with a predator's patience, every step, every swing calculated. Daggers spin outward, catching blades, deflecting attacks, creating openings that his sword exploits in clean, lethal lines.
"You fight well," the architect murmurs, stepping lightly across the floor, avoiding the spinning daggers. "But your fury… it blinds you. And mercy… will betray you one day."
Zhen Yan pivots under the swing of a curved blade, dagger catching the edge and spinning it harmlessly away. "Mercy is the weapon of the careful," he says. "And fury is the weapon of the patient."
The architect narrows their eyes, recognizing the intent behind the calm precision. "Most would strike blindly, kill indiscriminately. But you… you are unlike the others."
The duel continues. Zhen Yan moves as if flowing with the wind itself, daggers arcing like blades of red lightning, sword slicing with quiet inevitability. He strikes only where necessary, disarming, disabling, testing limits, leaving wounds without killing when possible. Yet the strikes carry weight; each is a message: I am not to be stopped.
The architect shifts stance, suddenly feinting low, spinning into a strike meant to end the fight. Zhen Yan reacts instantly, dagger spinning to intercept, sword arcing in tandem, metal humming in the air. Sparks scatter, the sound sharp against the silence of the hall.
A bead of sweat slides down Zhen Yan's temple beneath the mask, but his expression is unreadable. Every strike, every parry, is a balance of fury and patience, of vengeance tempered by restraint.
"You seek answers," the architect hisses, stepping back, circling. "And yet… you know nothing. The roots of power, the canopy above—do you think you can cut what has grown unchecked for generations?"
Zhen Yan advances, red blossoms brushing the floor. "I will cut them anyway."
A dagger strikes, blade spinning in a deadly arc, disarming one of the architect's hidden weapons. Sword slices through another, steel ringing sharply, sparks flying. The architect stumbles, just slightly—enough to reveal a hint of weakness.
Qiu Feng watches silently from the balcony, staff resting lightly. His eyes are unreadable. "Even the canopy has a flaw," he murmurs. "But the question is… will you exploit it without losing yourself?"
Zhen Yan's lips tighten beneath the mask. Every memory of the Zhen Family—the laughter, the warmth, the betrayal of blood-stained night—fuels him. Every move becomes sharper, faster, and precise. He flows like a storm through the hall, petals falling heavier now, as if the carved blooms themselves mark his path of vengeance.
The architect falters again, miscalculating, their foot slipping slightly on the polished marble. Zhen Yan sees it—a momentary, fleeting opening—and strikes with flawless timing. Sword flashes, dagger arcs, and the architect is forced to retreat, taking the first real step backward in the duel.
"You are… relentless," the architect admits, voice low, masking both anger and a flicker of fear. "Even shadows can surprise me."
Zhen Yan lowers his sword slightly, daggers still spinning at his sides. "And shadows do not forgive."
A silence descends upon the hall. Petals drift down slowly, like blood in the lantern light. The Windshadow has made his mark—one strike, one dance, one message: the roots of the great family are not untouchable.