She woke at dawn.
Not because of a nightmare, but because of an instinct honed by years of poverty and uncertainty. A mother's instinct that knows when the world has veered even half a step too far from normal.
The night was too quiet.
There was no cricket chirping, no leaves rustling in the wind, even the village dogs that usually barked at shadows were silent.
The silence was pure, like a yard swept before blood was spilled.
She sat up slowly, making sure the straw mat didn't creak, her breath held in her chest. Beside her, her husband was still sleeping—Yan Zhen's face looked older than his actual age. He always looked like he was carrying a burden he never revealed. Since yesterday, that burden had felt heavier.
She reached out, about to wake him. Then she heard footsteps outside the house.
One.
Two.
Stop.
The steps were unhurried. Too steady for a drunk, too light for a village thief. These people knew where they were going.
They weren't looking. They were coming.
The throbbing in her temples intensified.
She got up and walked barefoot to the small kitchen window. Through the gap in the loose wood, she saw shadows moving. Not one, not two, but several. They carried no torches, no light.
These people didn't want to be seen.
She took a step back. Her hands trembled, but her mind became painfully clear. Pieces of yesterday's events pieced themselves together: the sect disciple who rejected Yan Luofei with open contempt, the village chief's faint smile that ended the conversation too quickly, the neighbors who suddenly chose silence.
So this is how it was.
She turned, about to wake her husband and call her child, when the front door was slammed from the outside.
Not opened.
Smashed.
The old wood splintered like dry bone. The night wind blew in, carrying the smell of iron, the scent of blood not yet spilled, but already promised.
Three people entered.
They wore dark, unadorned clothing, their faces covered with thin cloth, their eyes empty, devoid of hatred, no joy. Only a task to be accomplished.
One of them spoke, his voice flat.
"Yan Zhen."
Her husband was fully awake then. He sat up, then stood before his wife unconsciously, his body a shield that even he knew was inadequate.
"What do you want?" he asked.
There was no answer.
One step forward. A fist slammed into his chest. The sound of bone meeting force was audible. Yan Zhen was thrown against the wall, her breath stopped in one short gasp.
She screamed. The sound was broken, not beautiful, but painful.
She ran toward her husband, but his hair was pulled hard from behind, the world spinning as her face slammed against the floor, the rough wood scraping against her cheek, a salty taste filling her mouth.
"Don't move," said a cold voice.
She saw her husband struggling to get up. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He opened his mouth, perhaps wanting to speak—to plead, to explain, or simply to ask for time.
The sword descended faster than any words.
There was no heroic scream, no last stand.
Just a dull thud. And a body falling.
Something inside her chest collapsed. She crawled toward her husband, but someone's foot pressed down on her back, pinning her to the floor.
"Quick," said another. "Don't make a sound."
What other sound could she make? The world had already decided without question.
The back bedroom door opened.
She turned and saw Yan Luofei standing there. Her eyes widened, staring at the blood, staring at her father's motionless body.
"Run!" she shouted, her voice hoarse and broken. "Luofei, run!"
One of the attackers turned.
She struggled, clawing at the hand that held her. Her nails broke, blood dripped, but the pain was insignificant.
"Take the others first," said the first voice. "This one—"
She didn't hear the rest.
He only saw his son take a step back. In Yan Luofei's eyes, he saw confusion, fear, and something far too mature for her age. The understanding that the world wouldn't stop.
He wanted to say something important, something that would endure, but time wouldn't allow it.
He only managed to shout,
"Don't trust anyone!"
The sword descended.
It wasn't what he'd imagined. There was no sharp pain. Just cold, pressure, and then the world began to fade.
He fell to his side, his vision blurring. In his remaining consciousness, he saw Yan Luofei disappear toward the back door, her small body moving swiftly, like a shadow that had finally chosen the darkness.
Good, he thought. At least one.
Footsteps were chasing.
He wanted to get up, wanted to hold them back, but his body couldn't handle it anymore.
He stared at the ceiling, the small crack in the wood he'd known for years. It was there where he'd used to count the days.
Strange, he thought. I have no regrets.
He only regretted ever hoping the world would be fair. Regret believing that silence could protect. Regret teaching her son to be just. If she could speak again, she would say: Don't ask for justice, but take it for yourself.
The world went dark.
And outside the house, the villagers remained asleep. No one woke, no one asked questions.
Because this massacre wasn't a crime.
This was legalized genocide.
She ran.
Not because she was brave, not because she knew where to go. She ran because her mother was screaming, and that voice was stronger than her own thoughts.
"Run!"
The word hit her head harder than the sound of the door being smashed. Her body moved before she could comprehend what was happening. Her feet hit the backyard dirt, gravel digging into her soles, but the pain lingered far behind, swallowed by a crushing fear.
She didn't look back.
Not because she didn't want to, but because something inside her knew: if she looked back, her feet would stop.
The night air felt heavy. Too cold, too clean. There was no sound except his own labored breathing and the crunch of leaves against his small body. He hit the wooden fence, climbed without technique, the skin peeling off his hands, and then fell tumbling down the other side.
He got up again.
His mother had told him not to trust anyone.
The words didn't have full meaning to him at the time, but the tone, the tone of desperation cut by metal, cut deeper than any other.
He ran toward the small forest behind the village. He knew that place. He had played there before and been scolded by his father for coming home covered in mud.
Now the mud was a protection.
Low branches clawed at his face, wet leaves stuck to his hair. He slipped, fell, got up, fell again. His breathing began to sound strange, like something cracking in his chest.
Behind him came the sound of footsteps.
Not fast. Not in a hurry.
They weren't running.
That realization almost made his legs give out.
They knew he was small, they knew he wouldn't get far, and they knew time was on their side.
She held back her tears by biting her own sleeve. Her teeth bit into the fabric until her jaw ached, and she dared not make a sound. Every sob felt like a scream.
She remembered her father.
It wasn't her father's face when he died; her brain refused to process it. She remembered his large, rough, always warm hand as it gripped her shoulder; she remembered his voice telling her that the world wasn't good, but it wasn't as bad as it seemed.
Her father was wrong.
She crept into the denser bushes, her body curled up, her back pressed to the damp ground. Through the gaps in the leaves, she saw shadows moving along the small path. Adult feet, clean shoes. No hurry.
One of them stopped.
Her heart stopped with it.
The shadow stood still, as if listening.
Yan Luofei held her breath until her chest felt like it was on fire. She didn't know how long it was, whether it was seconds or a lifetime.
Then the shadow moved again.
Gone.
She didn't know when she started shaking. Her hands shook violently, her teeth clenching soundlessly. Her body was cold, but sweat poured down her face and back.
She didn't cry; crying felt like a luxury.
She waited until the sky began to change color. Not completely bright, but enough to distinguish the shapes of the trees. At that moment, her fear didn't disappear, only morphed into something heavier.
She emerged from the bushes on stiff legs, every step feeling wrong. The morning world looked the same as it had yesterday, and it felt insulting.
She saw a thin smoke coming from the direction of the village. The smell of burning wood mixed with something else. The smell of iron was still there.
She didn't return home.
She knew the house was gone, even if the building itself was still standing.
She walked along the edge of the forest, avoiding the main road. People were starting to come out of their houses, talking, laughing, but no one was running, no one was shouting, no one was asking questions.
She saw the village chief in the distance, standing with two other men, whispering. The chief nodded.
There was no surprise on his face. No sorrow on his face.
At that moment, something cold and sharp formed in Yan Luofei's chest.
Not hatred, not sadness, but a conclusion.
She understood, without words, that what had happened to her family was no mistake, no coincidence. And not a tragedy to be remembered.
It was just something that was "resolved."
He walked further, until the village was no longer in sight. His legs finally gave out. He fell to his knees on the hard ground, his hands clenching the dirt until his nails broke.
Only then did he cry.
The cry wasn't loud, not dramatic, just the air escaping his lungs in short, painful gasps. The tears fell silently, wetting the ground.
"I ran," he whispered, barely audible.
The words spun around in his head, changing shape, sharpening.
I ran.
I lived.
They died.
The logic was simple. Too simple to deny.
The guilt didn't come as an explosion. It came as a weight placed gently on his back and never lifted again.
He got up.
There were no promises of revenge. No oaths to the heavens. Such things felt foolish, even to a child who had lost everything.
She knew only one thing: If the world decided who lived and who died, then one day, she wouldn't let it decide.
And if that meant becoming something the world didn't like, she would.
She would.
Yan Luofei walked away, her small body blending into the path that didn't record the names of people like her family.
Behind her, the villagers began to truly awaken. And none of them would remember this day as the day of the massacre.
To be continued...