The northern city lay wide and silent beneath the sky's vast stretch. It bore a strange tranquility, not from peace but from obedience—a silence forged by submission. Buildings towered in ancient symmetry, and shadowy figures moved in rhythm with unspoken rules. No one laughed aloud, and no child's squeal pierced the air. In the North, you survived by knowing when to speak, when to bow, and most importantly—when to disappear.
At the city's center, a massive structure cast its presence like a mountain. Jet-black flags fluttered from its towering spires, each bearing the sigil of the Black Wolves Sect: a hooded man seated on a throne, his face hidden beneath a bone-white mask. Within its stone heart, the sect leader sat, veiled in mystery, masked as always, but with eyes like silver spears behind the iron facade.
He addressed the room filled with masked disciples—soldiers, assassins, and sorcerers trained in forbidden ways.
"The city breathes," the Black Wolves leader intoned, "but not freely. It breathes under our hand, and our will keeps it from choking on rebellion."
Just then, a soldier knelt before him, breathing heavily from a swift return. "Leader, news from the border. The imperial troops are entering the Northern route. They travel with the Second and Third Princes."
The masked man leaned forward, fingers tapping his steel armrest. "The Emperor sends his sons into my garden?" His laughter rolled across the hall, deep and unbothered. "Then let us welcome our guests."
He waved his hand. "Prepare rooms. They should feel safe, even if they are not."
Day Three: En Route to the North
The path grew narrower, and the air colder as Prince Long Wei rode ahead of the imperial convoy. His elite guard flanked him silently, their eyes sharp and their hands always near their blades. The Third Prince rode beside him, relaxed in posture but with a mind clearly at work.
"This silence…" Long Wei murmured, narrowing his eyes at the road ahead, "too quiet for a place so infamous."
"They call them wolves," the Third Prince replied with a scoff, "but even wolves hesitate when the lion walks through their door."
Long Wei didn't laugh. He knew better than to underestimate anyone, especially a sect that had lived untouched for years, thriving in darkness while forging weapons forbidden in every state.
As the sun began to dip, casting long shadows across the stones of the final border pass, the gates of the northern city loomed before them. Before entry, a white dove was released, a message bound to its feet, bound for the Emperor's eyes—confirmation that they had arrived.
Only twenty soldiers and Long Wei's elite guard entered with the princes. The rest remained stationed outside the gates, instructed to set up temporary quarters and await command. It was a strategic decision—half caution, half provocation.
Within the gates, the city didn't roar; it whispered.
It seemed calm.
Too calm.
Vendors smiled, but their eyes twitched with unease. Children ran, but only in shadows. Guards stood tall, but their movements were ghostlike, silent, and deliberate.
Then came the welcoming party—four figures dressed in long black robes, faces covered by delicate black silk. They bowed as the princes approached.
"Our leader welcomes the blood of the Emperor," one said. "He has prepared lodgings suitable for your honor."
Long Wei nodded, his tone unreadable. "Lead the way."
They followed with silent steps through the main streets. Around them, city dwellers peered from corners, their eyes curious but guarded. Eventually, they reached a courtyard encircled by black stone walls and ornate lanterns with violet flames. It was strangely beautiful, even peaceful. The soldiers accepted the offer to rest, though none truly let down their guard.
That night, while the others slept uneasily, Long Wei led his elite guards on a quiet exploration of the city.
They moved like shadows.
Street after street, alley after alley—the calm never broke. At a narrow bridge that crossed over a lazy canal, they paused. Long Wei placed his hand on the railing and stared across the water.
"Still feels wrong," one of his men whispered.
Long Wei nodded. "Everything in this city is too perfect. That means something is hiding underneath."
Dawn broke like glass shattering on stone.
The golden sun scattered over the rooftops, but the warmth didn't reach the streets. As Long Wei and the Third Prince walked toward the sect's main hall, their elite troops surrounded them in tight formation. Onlookers pretended to sweep, to chat, to sell—but many eyes were watching.
Then, a voice—crisp, feminine, and mocking—sliced through the street like a blade.
"Prince Long Wei! You've finally arrived. We've been waiting."
The group halted.
From above, a young woman dropped from the sky like a falling star and landed with effortless grace atop a narrow rooftop. She was dressed in flowing black robes trimmed with purple silk. A delicate scarf covered her mouth and nose, leaving only her almond-shaped eyes visible. In one hand, she held a slender flute that shimmered under the light.
The Third Prince stepped forward. "We appreciate the welcome and the accommodations. But enough riddles. We request an immediate audience with your sect leader."
The woman tilted her head. "He's… occupied. I was told to keep you company."
Without warning, she leapt into the air and struck at the Third Prince with blinding speed.
But he was ready.
Steel rang out as their blades met, a dance of power and precision. She moved like the wind, sharp and fluid. He matched her, strike for strike, weaving in deadly counters with the ease of a seasoned martial master.
She pulled back, twirled the flute in her hand, and then blew a single, haunting note.
The sound wasn't music—it was death.
From the note burst a wave of sound blades—sharp, invisible edges that tore through the air like a swarm of spectral knives. They aimed directly at the Third Prince's chest, neck, and arms in deadly succession.
Then, from behind, Long Wei extended his palm.
A quiet hum radiated from his center, and then—a blast of golden light erupted. It struck the sound blades mid-air, shattering them like glass dust. The force sent shockwaves through the bridge and forced the masked woman to fall back two steps.
She steadied herself, her voice calm. "Impressive."
The Third Prince wiped a drop of blood from his cheek. "I don't need your help," he said without turning to Long Wei.
Long Wei smiled slightly. "You're welcome."
Behind them, the four elite soldiers exchanged glances and quietly chuckled.
"Maybe not," one murmured.
The masked woman twirled her flute again and lowered her stance. "My name is Yue Lin. You'll be seeing more of me."
Then she vanished in a streak of wind, disappearing across the rooftops.
The street returned to silence, but tension hung thick in the air like smoke. This city was no place for royal blood. It was a game board, and everyone here knew how to play.
The war had not begun with swords.
It had begun with smiles.
An old man, his face weathered and lined with the marks of time, approached the two princes as they walked through the market square near the center of the city. His steps were slow, deliberate, but his eyes held a piercing clarity. He bowed respectfully before them and said, "My Lords, I humbly request an audience. I have followed the news of your arrival and believe I possess information valuable to your investigation."
Long Wei and the Third Prince exchanged glances before nodding in unison.
"Let's talk," Long Wei said calmly.
The old man guided them to a nearby tavern tucked into a quiet corner of the city. It bore the scent of old wood and warm wine, its upper level offering a private room with open windows that looked out onto the bustling street below. There, they sat and drank warm tea as the old man began his tale.
"The man who slaughtered the thirty citizens," he began, "was a commoner, a smith's apprentice. He had never shown signs of violence or madness until a fortnight ago. That morning, he walked into the town square wielding a blade forged with an unnatural black sheen. It pulsed with strange energy. He began striking without reason. Men, women, children—it made no difference. His eyes were vacant, as if someone else was inside him."
The Third Prince leaned forward. "What happened to him afterward?"
"He collapsed, dead, as if his life was consumed by the weapon," the old man said gravely. "But before that, he spoke a strange chant... some say it was a curse, others, a forbidden incantation."
The Third Prince requested any evidence that had been collected. Moments later, a wrapped bundle was brought in—pieces of the shattered blade, bloodstained garments, and a small scroll found in the smith's quarters. Long Wei carefully examined the blade fragments, and a faint, dark energy pulsed beneath his fingertips.
"We'll begin investigating this immediately," Long Wei said.
Just then, the sounds of a flute and drums drifted up the stairs. A beautiful lady had begun to perform in the tavern's main hall, dancing with grace and elegance. Her movements were fluid, light, almost divine—like a fairy moving through a dream. Even the soldiers seated nearby paused to watch, momentarily entranced by her beauty.
As the performance ended and the group prepared to leave the tavern, Long Wei caught the dancer staring at him intently. Her gaze lingered—curious, cautious, almost as if she recognized him from somewhere long ago.