WHEN XIAHOU LIAN WOKE, he lay still for a moment, dazed. He felt as though he was waking from a terrible nightmare in which his mother was dead, her body left in the street to rot—decapitated, face unrecognizable. Slowly, with unbearable anguish, he realized it hadn't been a dream at all.
She must still be lying there. I have to go back for her!
But as soon as he opened the door to leave the room, Uncle Duan pushed him back in, Qiu Ye entering after him.
"Uncle, what're you doing? My mother—"
"I know!" Uncle Duan cut him off. "Hurry and pack your things. You're coming back to the Garden with us."
"What about my mother? I need to get her!" Xiahou Lian shouted with tears in his eyes.
"You brat! Liu Guicang's disciples are searching every house in the city for you! If you go looking for the Garuda now, they'll catch you before you even get close. Are you trying to get yourself killed? Stop causing trouble and pack your things. We're leaving!"
Xiahou Lian stood silently, fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms.
Qiu Ye sighed, his eyes filled with a desolation reminiscent of fallen leaves scattered by a cold wind. He stood by the window, peering through the flimsy curtains as Liu Guicang's disciples roamed the streets, sabers in hand. Xiahou Pei's body lay motionless in the middle of the street, her hollow eye sockets gazing into the starless sky.
"I'm not leaving," Xiahou Lian said.
"Xiahou Lian!"
"I'm not leaving!" Xiahou Lian raised his bloodshot eyes. "I need to bury my mother. And I need to kill Liu Guicang!"
Uncle Duan laughed angrily. "Do you even know who Liu Guicang is? If your mother couldn't defeat him, what makes you think you can? How do you plan to fight hundreds of his disciples? How will you withstand his katana saber? When you fail, you'll end up just like her—dead in the streets, a laughingstock! Perfect. You and your mother can lie there in the markets, one in the north and the other in the south. That'll be a fine show for everyone!"
Qiu Ye frowned. "Duan Jiu!" he said sharply.
"But I can't just leave her lying there—I just can't!" Xiahou Lian said, wiping his eyes. The image of Xiahou Pei's decaying body haunted him. She had been so proud and unyielding. How could she endure lying exposed to the sun and wind, being eaten by insects and rats? How much was she suffering?
"Xiao-Lian," Qiu Ye said. "Do you know why Xiahou Pei's face was disfigured?"
Xiahou Lian turned his reddened eyes to Qiu Ye.
"She didn't want you to recognize her. She didn't want you to seek revenge. The Garuda was the Garden's finest blade, and she never feared a sword, nor death. She lived boldly and did as she pleased, harboring no attachments—except to you. Xiao-Lian, you were her one and only tie to this world."
"She didn't want me to recognize her—didn't want me to save or avenge her. But how could I… How could I…" Xiahou Lian choked on his sobs. "Am I supposed to stand back and watch her be trampled?!"
"No, Xiao-Lian. But she didn't want you to throw your life away. She wanted you to live. To survive, no matter what."
Grief piled on like layer after layer of dust, smothering Xiahou Lian's heart. What was so great about living? What was so terrible about dying? Was he meant to let his mother's body rot in the streets while he ate and drank as if nothing had happened? Without another word, he picked up his saber, pushed open the door, and walked out of the room.
Downstairs, one table was filled with agents, another with assassins. Qiu Ye and Duan Jiu weren't the only ones who'd shown up—the rest of the Garden's Eight Legions had come as well. The moment Xiahou Lian stepped out, eleven pairs of eyes fell on him. Everyone was silent, as still and expressionless as statues.
Xiahou Lian pursed his lips and descended the stairs. Suddenly, an arrow grazed his side, drawing a stream of blood.
He turned his head to see Duan Jiu, his face livid. "Xiahou Lian! Are you going to fight Liu Guicang with those injuries?"
Xiahou Lian didn't answer; he kept walking.
A second arrow struck the back of his knee, sending him crashing to the ground. Gritting his teeth, he clutched the railing and hauled himself upright again, the veins on his hands bulging like ropes. Dragging his injured leg, he limped down the stairs. The assassins watched in silence, their expressions unreadable—maybe pitying, maybe sympathetic.
Duan Jiu shot a third arrow. Xiahou Lian crumpled once more, tumbling down the stairs. Blood poured from his head, his face battered and swollen. He could no longer stand on his trembling legs, but he still tried to crawl, leaving twin trails of blood in his wake. He was going to his death. Everyone knew it.
But some things had to be done without hesitation, even if doing them meant certain doom.
Qiu Ye, who had been silent, finally spoke. "Xiao-Lian, don't you understand? You're just an ant."
Descending the stairs, Qiu Ye seized Xiahou Lian by the collar with one hand. He had always been a delicate man, resembling a scholar who lacked the strength to lift a sword, but he now lifted seventeen-year-old Xiahou Lian effortlessly. Pressing Xiahou Lian's face against the window, he forced the youth to look at the disciples marching past outside.
"Look! Those disciples rise at dawn and rest at night. Their katana sabers are unmatched. Their quick-draw technique splits your belly and spills your intestines like water. Their upward slash crushes your skull until your left eye meets your right." Qiu Ye spoke in a gentle, composed tone even as he painted the most brutal of images.
Tears silently streamed down Xiahou Lian's face.
"Do you think dying for your mother would fulfill your filial duty, so you'd have no regrets when you faced your mother in the afterlife?" Qiu Ye asked. "Well, you're wrong. If you die, the world will know that Liu Guicang killed the Garuda and her son. He'll be hailed as the world's undisputed foremost sword master. People will flock to him and his order, and he'll rule the jianghu completely unchallenged. And you? You and your mother will have been nothing but his stepping stones, a crowning achievement on his list of triumphs, two pathetic rats slain by the master of Jingdao Villa." Qiu Ye's calm voice echoed in Xiahou Lian's ears. "Would you be happy with that, Xiao-Lian?"
Xiahou Lian hung lifelessly as Qiu Ye held him by the neck. Tears blurred his vision, making everything hazy. Shame, hatred, and sorrow raged within him, leaving him battered and broken. What tormented him most was his helplessness—his crushing sense of powerlessness. He would have no choice but to hide like a coward.
Outside, Liu Guicang rode up on his horse, its hooves clip-clopping as he circled Xiahou Pei's body twice.
Qiu Ye's grip on Xiahou Lian tightened; his gaze remained fixed on the scene outside. The assassins gathered silently, carefully poking small holes in the window paper to peer out at the street.
"You're Xiahou Lian, aren't you?" Liu Guicang shouted. "I know you're the Garuda's son."
Xiahou Lian trembled imperceptibly. Qiu Ye held him steady, not letting him move.
"Coward," Liu Guicang sneered, his eyes on Xiahou Pei's lifeless body. "Your own mother lies right here, and yet you hide away like a scared little turtle. What's the matter? To think that the Garuda's son is a coward who doesn't even have the guts to face me!"
The night was dark as ink, heavy and suffocating, as though it might spill from the sky at any moment. Houses lined the streets on both sides. In the dark night, frightened eyes watched Liu Guicang from behind the window paper. Sitting astride his tall horse, the swordsman scanned the street, but the person he sought was nowhere to be found. He waved his hand, and one of his disciples whistled.
From the end of the street came the fierce barking of dogs. One tall shadow and two shorter ones emerged from the dense darkness—an advancing disciple leading two black wolfhounds. The dogs prowled and sniffed; their sleek coats shone, their eyes gleamed with hunger, and drool dripped from their teeth.
Xiahou Lian shivered.
"You gutter vermin have no sense of family," Liu Guicang said. "Xiahou Lian, if I let the dogs devour your mother until nothing's left, will you still stay hidden?"
It felt as if a thunderbolt had struck Xiahou Lian's skull. His body shook violently as rage surged through his chest. He thrashed, trying to break free, but Qiu Ye's grip was unyielding. The other assassins rushed forward; some seized his legs, others pinned his arms, and even more covered his mouth. His veins bulged, his teeth grinding audibly. Fury and humiliation tore through him like lightning, threatening to burn him to ashes.
But there was nothing he could do. He could only watch helplessly as the dogs sniffed at his mother's corpse. The disciple raised a whip and lashed it hard against the wolfhounds. They yelped in fear, then sank their teeth into Xiahou Pei's battered body, beginning to tear it apart.
They ripped away chunks of rotting flesh and swallowed them, quickly exposing the stark white bones beneath.
Xiahou Lian's tears poured down in streams. The assassins turned away, one letting out a quiet sigh.
"Stop being so impulsive," said the assassin holding his arm. Xiahou Lian recognized him as the newly appointed Mahoraga. "Do you really not understand why Xiahou Pei died?"
Xiahou Lian froze.
"It was because of you," an assassin below him murmured. "If you hadn't let that young master escape back then, Xiahou Pei wouldn't have had to take your lashes for you. She wouldn't have suffered new injuries atop old ones, so that they plagued her for years. Her injuries flare up in the rain, and Liuzhou's winters are damp. The heavens took her, and there was nothing anyone could do."
Because of me. It's all because of me. The assassins' words echoed in Xiahou Lian's ears like a curse. His recklessness and defiance had caused Xiahou Pei's tragic end. It was all his fault.
Liu Guicang waited for a long time, but still no one appeared. He dismounted from his horse and set a foot on Xiahou Pei's head. "Xiahou Lian! You don't care that your mother's head will end up dog food? I'll count to ten—after that, her head is theirs!"
"Pull him back!" roared Uncle Duan. "Don't let him watch!"
The assassins dragged Xiahou Lian to the table and forced him onto the stool. He sat stiffly, a lifeless puppet, his eyes dull and hollow. Silent, unmoving, he seemed shrouded in a dark cloud. Even without him speaking, his suffocating grief was palpable to every assassin in the room.
"Ten, nine, eight, seven…"
Xiahou Lian didn't move. He seemed deaf to Liu Guicang's countdown, like a puppet oblivious to the world.
"…three, two, one!" Liu Guicang shouted. "Xiahou Lian, you useless trash!"
He lifted his foot, and the two dogs lunged at Xiahou Pei's head, tearing at the rotting flesh. In moments, half her face was gone.
Xiahou Lian stood, and the assassins surrounded him. "I'm going to sleep," he said, his voice hoarse and barely audible.
Trembling, he turned and climbed the stairs. With each step, he swayed on his injured legs. No one offered help: An assassin's path had to be walked alone, even through thorns or down roads prowled by demons.
Behind him, outside the inn's door, the two wolfhounds gnawed Xiahou Pei's skull, even crushing the bone between their sharp teeth. The sound of their chewing seeped through the cracks in the door and windows, reaching Xiahou Lian's ears. But Xiahou Lian didn't look back. Step by step, he crawled like a stray dog back to his room.
The night was silent, devoid even of the baying of dogs. The entire city seemed lifeless.
Xiahou Lian sat by the bed, hugging his knees. His tears had run dry. Boys weren't supposed to cry. When he was little, Xiahou Pei had scolded him for crying, calling him a crybaby, a sissy. Xiahou Lian hated those words. Every time he wanted to cry, he held back his tears, biting his fist to silence himself at any cost. But now, there was no one to care if he cried. He could weep from dusk until dawn, and no one would scold him for being a baby or acting like a girl.
Suddenly, the door opened, and Uncle Duan walked in. He offered Xiahou Lian a blade. Xiahou Lian took it—it was Hengbo. The cold of the sheath in his hand felt like a stab to his heart. He said nothing, just cradled Hengbo slowly over his chest.
"Luckily, I was able to recover Hengbo. I found it in the woods outside the city. So you'll have something to remember her by," Uncle Duan said. "Your mother was a natural-born swordswoman. For most, being an assassin means hardship. They have to struggle and crawl their way up, slowly making a name for themselves. Failure is inevitable. Folks like us have simple wishes: We do the jobs we can and fight to survive. But your mother was different—a genius. From the moment she debuted, she never failed, and she never lost. In the Central Plains, they called her the Garuda. In the Western Regions, they called her 'Avoru'—'devil.'"
Xiahou Lian remained silent, his eyes like empty wells. Uncle Duan wasn't sure whether the young man was even listening, but he sighed and continued. "Xiao-Lian, you must remember this: Your father is Qiye Garden's abbot, the unstoppable Shixin Buddha who swept through the Central Plains thirty years ago. Your mother was Qiye Garden's Garuda, the Avoru of the Western Regions, the sharpest blade in the world. The blood of assassins flows in your veins. You are a born killer. Your brother, Chiyan, inherited Shixin's swordplay. Go find him, Xiao-Lian. Learn the strongest saber techniques in the world from him."
Xiahou Lian raised his head, his dark, lifeless eyes reflecting Uncle Duan's face. In a hoarse voice, he repeated the name of the brother he'd never met. "Chiyan."
"Right. He lives on Heimianfo Peak. Only the abbot knows the way there. You'll have to climb the mountain yourself, using ropes, daggers, whatever it takes. Find him, Xiao-Lian. You must take your mother's place and become the world's strongest assassin. It's the only hope you have of defeating Liu Guicang."
"I understand."
The grieving boy was hidden in the shadows. Uncle Duan couldn't see his eyes—only the frail hands clenched so tightly around Hengbo that it looked as though his fingers might snap under the strain. In that moment, Uncle Duan felt that the boy's hands gripped not just a saber but his very life.
The assassins began planning their exit from Liuzhou. They decided to leave in groups, with Xiahou Lian in the first, and departed on a clear day. Qiu Ye, Duan Jiu, and Xiahou Lian rode from the city on horseback. Ahead stretched vast plains dotted with withered trees and cawing crows, stone bridges and winding roads. Faint clouds overhead brushed the sky like strokes of pale ink, and the darker hues below seemed to paint the outline of the boundless expanse of distant mountains.
About half a mile outside the city, Xiahou Lian suddenly reined in his horse. Qiu Ye and Duan Jiu turned to look at him in surprise.
Xiahou Lian had barely said anything for days. Worried that he might do something rash, Qiu Ye had assigned people to watch over him in shifts. Yet Xiahou Lian did nothing: He ate when it was time, slept when he was told, and never went near the main gate. He was still just a child, and no one expected him to recover so soon from his mother's death. He no longer cried, though, and his absolute obedience bordered on chilling.
"What are you doing?" Uncle Duan asked.
Xiahou Lian dismounted without answering and knelt by the roadside. Then he prostrated three times toward Liuzhou, pressing his head to the ground.
"Unfilial son Xiahou Lian bids farewell to his mother! The grudge born from her murder cannot be erased. From this day forward, Xiahou Lian will feud unendingly with Jingdao Villa and Liu Guicang," he declared. "I won't rest until I die!"
Qiu Ye walked over to him. "Xiao-Lian, don't you know that those who kill will be killed in return? Our hands are stained with blood and heavy with sins. Such a day is bound to come. Why cling to this obsession? Listen to me: Let it go. Live your own life! An eye for an eye leads only to an endless cycle. If you kill Liu Guicang, his disciples and descendants will come after you. Why do this to yourself?"
"Shifu," Xiahou Lian said without turning around, his kneeling figure cold and bleak. "I, Xiahou Lian, will not marry, have children, take disciples, or make friends in this lifetime. All such responsibilities will end with me. Once I'm gone, everything will come to an end."
The wind whispered desolately through the withered grass of the winter plains. Xiahou Lian's words were both a vow and a self-inflicted punishment.
Qiu Ye watched as Xiahou Lian rose and walked away from him. The biting cold wind tore through the boy's hair, whipping his tattered black robes. Hatred and grief had suddenly hardened this wild, untamed child, forcing him to mature. When Xiahou Lian lifted his gaze, a sharp ache pierced Qiu Ye's heart.
Those eyes belonged to a wounded lone wolf.
Qiu Ye knew that once the wolf had healed, it would return from afar armed with claws and teeth, ready to exact vengeance on all who'd trampled that assassin's body.