The hall lies quiet for a heartbeat, but Zhen Yan knows silence is only the calm before the storm. The petals carved into the marble floors seem to shiver, carrying the weight of secrets buried for decades. Lanterns cast long, flickering shadows that stretch toward him like grasping fingers. Every step he takes echoes, deliberate and unbroken, leaving no room for hesitation.
He moves toward the inner chamber, the heart of the main hall. The architect of the Zhen Family's destruction is still present, observing, testing, waiting for the perfect moment to strike again. Zhen Yan's dagger spins lightly in his hand, sword half-drawn, red blossoms brushing the floor with each measured step.
From the far end of the hall, a door slides open silently. Enforcers emerge, elite Inner Court warriors with masks that hide their expressions and blades that gleam like liquid steel. Each step they take resonates with discipline, every movement rehearsed, every strike intended to protect the secrets behind the marble walls.
Zhen Yan stops. He tilts his head beneath the ghost mask, sensing the flow of their formation. They are skilled, deadly, but predictable to those who know patterns of death as intimately as he does.
"You seek answers," the tallest enforcer says, voice calm, controlled. "But you do not understand the cost of what lies beyond this door. The canopy above… the roots below… even your vengeance may be insufficient."
Zhen Yan does not answer. He only moves.
Steel arcs through the air. Daggers spin, striking weapons aside, deflecting blows, finding openings in a coordinated dance of death and precision. His sword flashes, cutting lines cleanly through the formation, forcing the enforcers to retreat, each strike leaving a mark of warning rather than needless death.
He steps into the inner chamber. Polished marble glimmers beneath his boots, reflecting lantern light. At the center sits a carved desk, scrolls and ledgers meticulously arranged, ink-stained hands of accountants and secret-keepers long gone. The air carries the scent of ink, old wood, and something darker—the faint metallic tinge of blood hidden beneath centuries of silk and authority.
Zhen Yan moves closer. His fingers brush over a ledger. Symbols, numbers, and markings reveal the truth of the Zhen Family massacre. Wealth siphoned, alliances broken, orders signed in secret—proof that the annihilation was not only sanctioned but orchestrated for amusement and profit by those who call themselves his betters.
A folded letter slips from between the pages. He unfolds it carefully. The handwriting is precise, familiar—his bloodline hidden behind layers of disguise. His heart tightens beneath the mask. The truth he had long abandoned—the question of his real family—pulses before him. And it is not what he expected.
"You've found it," the architect says softly from the doorway, stepping forward. "The roots do not hide well when one knows where to look. And now… you see the branches."
Zhen Yan glances up, fingers tightening around his sword. "These roots… they reach deeper than I imagined. But deeper does not mean untouchable."
The architect smiles, eyes narrowing beneath the mask. "Few survive the revelation of blood. You may be clever, Windshadow, but cleverness cannot undo the weight of lineage, nor the cruelty of choice."
Zhen Yan exhales beneath the mask. "Then I will bear the weight. And I will carve justice through the roots themselves."
From the shadows, enforcers hesitate, sensing the shift in his presence. The Windshadow is no longer a wanderer, no longer merely a killer of petals—he is a storm gathering strength, a shadow growing wider, a force that will not stop until every secret is exposed and every life stolen is avenged.
He steps forward, dagger spinning, sword humming faintly. The red blossoms along his hem flare as if ignited, leaving a trail of defiance across the polished marble.
And in that moment, the first veil is lifted. The roots of the great family are no longer hidden. And Zhen Yan is ready to strike at the canopy itself.
The inner chamber then trembles with quiet menace, every carved petal on the marble walls trembling as if anticipating the violence to come. Zhen Yan steps forward, bamboo hat low, ghost mask concealing the storm in his eyes. His red-blossomed robe sways around him like a signal of war, daggers spinning lightly in his sleeves, sword humming faintly in preparation.
From the shadows, enforcers of the Inner Court emerge in waves. Each movement is precise, disciplined, trained over years to suppress intruders and eliminate threats. But Zhen Yan does not hesitate. He knows their patterns, their formations, their predictability masked as elegance.
"You move recklessly," the tallest enforcer says, voice calm but tense. "The canopy watches, Windshadow. Even one misstep could cost you everything."
Zhen Yan tilts his head beneath the mask, fingers tightening on the sword. "Then I will step carefully. Or carve a new path entirely."
Steel arcs through the chamber. Daggers spin, catching the edge of the first strike and deflecting it, a soft hiss of metal cutting air. The enforcer lunges again, but Zhen Yan's blade moves in perfect harmony with his body, precise, fluid, decisive. Every strike forces retreat, every feint exposes a weakness.
He moves through the hall like a storm, flowing between attackers. Daggers whirl, striking weapons aside, disarming without killing when possible. Sword flashes with lethal elegance, slicing the air in lines calculated to test and dominate. The Inner Court enforcers falter under the relentless assault, their movements precise but insufficient against the Windshadow.
A scroll falls from a nearby desk, fluttering across the floor. Zhen Yan glances at it mid-motion—ledgers of wealth siphoned, families destroyed for sport, villages stripped and burned for the amusement of the great family. Each name, each signature, each seal a thread connecting the canopy above to the lives they ruined.
The enforcers notice his pause and regroup, forming tighter walls of steel. "He moves too quickly," one mutters beneath a mask. "Even the Windshadow cannot penetrate forever."
But Zhen Yan does not slow. He steps lightly onto the table, spinning dagger and sword in tandem. A strike knocks two enforcers to the ground, another slices a blade from a third. Red blossoms flare with every motion, marking the path of destruction across polished marble.
The architect watches silently from the doorway, expression unreadable beneath the ornate mask. "Impressive," they murmur. "But you still do not see the full canopy. The roots run deeper than your fury can reach. You may strike, but the tree remains."
Zhen Yan steps forward, voice low, determined. "Then I will cut the roots if I must. Every branch. Every petal. Every life stolen will be paid for."
From the shadows, another wave of enforcers emerges, moving to block his path. But Zhen Yan is ready. Every step, every strike, every spin of dagger and sword is a dance of death and precision. He moves like wind and storm combined, carving a crimson path through the hall.
Petals drift from the ceiling, falling heavy, mingling with the faint streaks of blood on the floor. Lanterns flicker as the chamber trembles with the echo of steel and defiance.
The Inner Court hesitates. They have seen many killers, many shadows, but none like this. The Windshadow is more than legend; he is a force, a storm, an avenger whose calm precision hides an unyielding fury.
And through the inner hall, red blossoms mark his passage, each step a warning: the great family's canopy will bleed.
The architect narrows their eyes. "The storm is clever… but cleverness alone cannot undo what is sewn in blood."
Zhen Yan tilts his head, mask unmoving. "Then I will unweave it."
"How long... do you intend on keeping that mask on?" The architect asks. "Having a mask on does not feel mysterious. Instead, it feels like you are afraid of certain things."
"Why do you think so?"
"Because, having a mask, feels like you are hiding your identity. If you do, you are afraid of your true identity being seen."
Silence before the first ripple of fear passes through the hall, and the Windshadow presses on.