The chamber is silent save for Luo Shen's ragged breathing. Zhen Yan stands over him, bamboo hat low, ghost mask concealing the storm that simmers in his gaze. Red blossoms along his robe sway slightly with each controlled movement, petals trailing the path of a predator ready to strike. His sword rests lightly against his shoulder, daggers spinning at his sides—silent, deadly, deliberate.
"You've given me the ledger," Zhen Yan says quietly, voice even, yet every word carries weight. "Now tell me everything. Every name, every hand involved in my family's annihilation. I want the full path laid bare."
Luo Shen swallows hard, eyes darting beneath the mask. The room seems to close around him, shadows pressing from the corners, petals above drifting down like falling blood. "I… I can't—if I speak… they will know," he mutters, trembling.
Zhen Yan tilts his head beneath the bamboo hat, voice low but sharp. "They already know you have failed. Speak, or the next name will be the last you carry alive."
A bead of sweat slides down Luo Shen's temple. He finally nods, producing a series of parchments hidden beneath his robes. "The network… it's vast," he whispers. "Not just the Inner Court. Families, merchants, villages… anyone who might grow, anyone who might resist… they're pruned. Orders come from… higher. Higher than me. Higher than the architect you face in the hall."
Zhen Yan steps closer, spinning dagger lightly in hand. "Names. Locations. Every thread you can pull that will unravel their web."
QLuo Shen shivers. "I… I only know of the first wave—the ones who struck your adoptive family. The rest… the secret councils, the hidden families… they are protected, powerful… untouchable. The… the great family… the blooded ones… they orchestrate everything."
Zhen Yan's grip tightens on his sword. A faint hum runs along the blade as if sensing his intent. "And now I know," he mutters beneath the mask. "I know the first step, and I will follow every thread, every shadow, until each hand is cut."
Luo Shen trembles, pushing a parchment toward Zhen Yan. Names, locations, the hidden marks of killers scattered throughout the city, villages where the great family's influence has strangled life quietly, methodically. Each line a thread to unravel, each signature a promise of retribution.
Zhen Yan studies the documents carefully, mind calculating, body coiled, ready for the storm ahead. Every move, every step, every strike will be premeditated. Mercy is not given to the innocent lost; fury is reserved for the guilty.
"You've done enough," Zhen Yan says finally, voice soft but cold. "Your life remains because it still serves me. Every name you've given, every path you've revealed… it will lead me to justice."
Luo Shen bows his head, trembling. "I… I understand."
Zhen Yan steps back, daggers spinning lightly, sword humming faintly as if acknowledging the map of vengeance laid before him. Outside the chamber, petals drift from carved ceilings, settling across the polished marble like the first hint of a crimson tide to come.
"The network is vast," he mutters beneath the mask, turning toward the inner hall. "But every root can be severed. Every canopy can fall. And every life stolen… will be repaid."
With that, he disappears into the shadows of the hall, leaving whispers of dread in his wake. The enforcers still stand silent, watching, calculating, realizing the Windshadow is not a fleeting storm—he is a force gathering, precise, merciless, unstoppable.
The city beyond the Inner Garden waits. Villages, merchants, families—all unwittingly caught in the threads of the great family's cruelty—are on the edge of a storm they do not yet understand.
And at its center moves Zhen Yan, the Windshadow, red blossoms tracing a path of vengeance through shadow, steel, and the inevitable reckoning to come.
The night air is thick with the scent of damp earth and smoldering torches as Zhen Yan steps silently beyond the gates of the city. Bamboo hat low, ghost mask hiding his expression, his red-blossomed robe whispers against the grass, petals brushing the dew-soaked ground. In his hands, the sword hums faintly, daggers spinning in a deadly prelude.
The village before him lies in quiet ruin. Smoke curls from chimneys long extinguished, doors hang askew, and the scent of fear lingers even days after the initial purge. This is the first place marked on Luo Shen's parchment—a village pruned by the great family's merciless hand. And here, the first of the killers waits.
Zhen Yan steps lightly among shattered beams and overturned carts. Shadows cling to corners, and every motion is a test of patience, every sound a potential clue. The wind carries faint whispers: a child hiding, a merchant's ghostly breath, the subtle scuff of boots on stone.
A figure emerges from the shadows—a killer, trained, cold, professional. Twin daggers gleam under the moonlight, eyes sharp beneath a mask of black silk. "So, the Windshadow comes to play," the assassin says, voice low, controlled. "I've heard tales… but tales do not kill."
Zhen Yan tilts his head beneath the bamboo hat, ghost mask unmoving. "I am not here to play. I am here to repay debts."
The duel begins without hesitation. Steel flashes in the moonlight, daggers arcing, sword slicing with precision. The assassin moves with lethal intent, but Zhen Yan anticipates each motion, dagger spinning to catch blades midair, sword flashing to disarm and redirect.
A swing aimed at his shoulder is deflected; a dagger spun outward knocks the second weapon aside. Each step Zhen Yan takes is measured, flowing like water and striking like fire. The red blossoms along his hem flare in the faint light, tracing a path of warning across the ruined village square.
"You fight well," the assassin hisses, spinning low to strike at his legs. "But even shadows tire!"
Zhen Yan pivots, blades intersecting in a dance of steel, every motion controlled, precise, unstoppable. "Shadows do not tire," he replies softly. "They endure… and they strike when the moment comes."
With a sudden flick, dagger spins to disarm, sword arcs to push the assassin backward. He stumbles, nearly falling over a toppled cart, eyes wide beneath the mask. Zhen Yan steps closer, every movement deliberate, the hum of steel whispering of inevitable consequence.
"You… you are…" the assassin gasps, realizing too late. "The Windshadow…"
"Enough," Zhen Yan says, voice calm, cold. "Speak. Tell me where the others are. Every hand that touched my family's blood will be marked."
Trembling, the assassin produces a folded note. Names, locations, orders—the network begins to unravel, thread by thread. Zhen Yan takes it silently, eyes scanning every detail. Each revelation sharpens his purpose, each truth a dagger in the shadowed heart of the great family's cruelty.
With a measured nod, he steps back. "Your life remains—for now. Use it to survive, or it will be the last."
The assassin collapses to the ground, trembling, while Zhen Yan disappears into the darkness beyond, leaving behind whispers and a path marked with red blossoms.
The hunt has only just begun. And the Windshadow's legend spreads through the villages like wildfire, carried on whispers: the black-robed figure with daggers spinning like petals, striking unseen, unrelenting, a force that answers the call of justice with cold precision.