The inn on the northern road crouched against the first rise of the hills like a creature hiding from the wind. Its wood was blackened by years of fire and smoke, the boards warped with age, sagging slightly under their own weight. The roof curved unevenly, shingles missing here and there, leaking the occasional droplet when the wind shifted. Lanterns hung outside, swaying gently in the morning breeze that carried with it the faint scent of pine and river mist. None burned for long; travelers and innkeepers alike knew better than to trust a flame when shadows moved without sound.
Inside, the patrons were few and uneasy. Travelers, merchants, and a pair of wandering warriors clustered in corners, eyes darting at shadows, hands resting casually—or deceptively—on weapon hilts. No one slept. No one laughed. Conversation was muted, a low hum of whispers that ended abruptly whenever a floorboard creaked under some unseen weight. Even the smallest noise—spilled wine, a shifting chair, the fall of a cup—felt like an omen. Each sound resonated, bouncing off walls, mingling with the subtle tremor of anticipation in the air.
The first hunters arrived just after midnight. They were not common thieves. Three men in matching black robes, adorned with crescent-moon emblems stitched into their shoulders, moved through the village like shadows given shape. Their training was precise; every step measured, every breath disciplined. A minor lieutenant of the Phoenix Sect had dispatched them with a single command: find him, strike him, and return proof. The proof, they understood, was not only the act but the story that would follow.
But the inn had already remembered him.
Shen Feng was not within the walls, yet his presence had woven itself into every corner. The wind shifted subtly, brushing curtains that had not moved in hours. Footsteps echoed where none should exist, a rhythm too deliberate to be a trick of the mind. Candles flared, only to die in sudden gusts that carried no tangible source. The hunters stiffened. Their training whispered to them, but instinct screamed louder: something was wrong. Every sense tightened, the hairs on their necks standing as though anticipating a strike that might never be seen. Discipline, pride, and honor pushed them forward.
The innkeeper, a short and stout man whose hands were stained by smoke and years of labor, whispered behind the counter: "He comes… but not like a man." His voice trembled slightly, and he tugged at his apron, as if preparing for the inevitable.
A rustle, soft and almost imperceptible, brushed against the edges of perception. One hunter raised a hand; the other two froze mid-step. Shadows stretched unnaturally, bending in impossible directions. A table shifted slowly, sliding across the floor with quiet menace, narrowly missing their boots.
The first hunter shouted, a bark of fear mingled with command. His blade swung in a wide arc—but the edge met nothing. Air pressed where steel should strike. Another grabbed him to steady him; both stumbled, their coordination undone. The third hunter was flung backward by some unseen force, hitting the wall with a dull thud.
Chaos erupted. Shouts mingled with clattering furniture, a scream that choked mid-throat. Outside, wind whipped through the village, rattling shutters and doors, shaking lanterns. Animals bolted into the night, dogs barking at nothing, cats leaping and vanishing into darkness. Inside, the tavern seemed alive, responding, bending, reshaping itself subtly in accordance with his unseen will.
By the time the inn settled, silence had returned. The three hunters lay scattered, bruised and humiliated, not dead, but broken in spirit and pride. Their master would never learn the truth. No one would speak of it. The truth existed only in the tremor of the air, in the whisper of wind, in the fear that lingered in bones long after the body had calmed.
From a dim corner, a lone merchant half-asleep saw it—or thought he did. A shadow bent impossibly, merging with the floorboards before dissolving into nothing. He blinked; the vision was gone. Only the faintest whisper of cloth brushing against wind remained, an echo too subtle for words but enough for memory.
No one slept that night. The weight of his presence pressed into every creaking floorboard, every fluttering curtain, every dripping eave. Patrons felt it, even without understanding: some being had passed, one that could not be confronted, measured, or contained. Fear lingered, palpable, curling around the rooms like smoke, threading itself into dreams that no one dared entertain.
At dawn, Shen Feng emerged. The sky was pale, tinged with the soft colors of sunrise breaking over distant hills. He did not pause. His steps left no trace, no footprint upon the earth, no disturbance of dust, no lingering scent of passage beyond the faint whisper of moving air. In the street, children peeked from behind doors and shutters, wide-eyed and trembling. Merchants whispered under their breath. Dogs growled at emptiness, following instinct alone. The innkeeper, hands still clutching his apron, shook his head, muttering: "The world is larger than we know… and some men… some men do not belong to it."
Shen Feng did not look back. He never did. The wind carried him north, along the hills where fog rolled off the river valley in curling wisps. Lanterns flickered and died in distant villages as if the night itself obeyed him. Every town he passed remembered only fragments—sounds, fleeting figures, whispered warnings—but never the whole.
Such was the way of the wind. Unstoppable. Untraceable. Inevitable.
Even the first official report reached the Phoenix Sect headquarters shortly thereafter. Three men returned, battered and broken, their story incomplete and contradictory. No attacker had been seen. No footprints, no evidence, nothing tangible. Only whispers and fear remained. The masters conferred in shadowed halls, unable to uncover the truth, their pride chafing against the impossibility of the act.
And that, precisely, was the advantage he wielded. The Wind left nothing behind except questions, legends, and silent lessons. Every movement, every step, every presence carried consequence without acknowledgment, shaping the world without seeking reward or recognition.
Shen Feng continued north. The fog rose once again from the river valley, curling along hills and winding between trees like ghostly serpents. Each town, each settlement, each inn passed into memory with fragments remembered: names, faces, a fleeting movement in the corner of the eye. But never the full measure of him. The Wind passed, and all else became myth, untouchable and incomprehensible.
And so he walked, alone as always, with nothing but the knowledge that consequence would follow, that the world bent around him whether he willed it or not. Every step deliberate, every breath measured. He did not sleep. He did not linger. He did not celebrate.
Because stillness was dangerous.
Because action carried weight.
Because the Wind would always remember.