The wind carries the faint scent of smoke and fear as Zhen Yan moves through the countryside with red blossoms tracing a silent path behind him. Bamboo hat low, ghost mask concealing his expression, he steps lightly over the rolling hills and through abandoned paths, the faint hum of his sword matching the rhythm of his heartbeat. Villages lie in ruin, the great family's mark evident in every overturned cart, every burned roof, every shuttered doorway.
Each location is a clue, each ruin a fragment of the web he seeks to unravel. From Luo Shen's ledger, he has names, but it is the lives of those left behind that guide him—villagers who whisper in hushed tones about masked killers, merchants who hide scraps of information beneath loose boards, children who peer from windows like ghosts. The threads are many, but he is patient. The Windshadow does not rush; he calculates, stalks, and strikes with precision.
In the first village, three assassins lie in wait near the edge of a withered orchard. Twin daggers gleam under the moonlight. They strike in unison, aiming to overwhelm. But Zhen Yan flows around them like a living shadow. A dagger spins, intercepting one blade mid-air; a sweeping motion of his sword knocks another aside. Petals along his robe flare, brushing the earth, marking a trail of warning and inevitability.
One assassin lunges at his side. Zhen Yan pivots, dagger catching the wrist, sword flicking in a counterstrike that leaves the man disarmed, trembling, yet alive—an unspoken promise hanging in the air: confess or fall.
"Where… the others?" the man gasps, fear in his eyes.
"They are on the wind," Zhen Yan replies softly. "Every hand that struck at the Zhen Family will be found. Every life stolen… will demand repayment."
By the time dawn stains the horizon pale gold, Zhen Yan has moved through three villages. Each encounter is a lesson in precision and calculation: assassins disarmed, records uncovered, villages mapped for the network of cruelty. With each confrontation, whispers grow—black-robed, red blossoms, the Windshadow moves unseen, unstoppable, a storm coming for those who believe themselves untouchable.
In a small market town, a villager huddles beneath a broken cart. "They say… the Windshadow has come," he whispers to a friend. "The one with the petals on his robe… He takes the killers, not the innocent."
Zhen Yan hears none of this, moves silently past, cataloging, analyzing, preparing for the strikes to come. Yet every whisper strengthens the legend, every sighting of red blossoms in shadow adds weight to the fear among the secretive agents of the great family.
That night, under a sky heavy with clouds, he pauses atop a hill overlooking a cluster of thatched roofs. Smoke rises from chimneys that burn without warmth, a reminder of the reach and cruelty of the great family. His sword hums faintly, daggers spinning in silent harmony.
"The web grows vast," he murmurs beneath the mask. "But no thread is beyond reach. No root is untouchable. The Windshadow will carve through all."
And from the darkness, he moves again, one village at a time, every strike deliberate, every shadow accounted for. Each encounter brings him closer to the hidden council, the architects of his family's annihilation, and the final revelation of blood and betrayal that awaits in the canopy above.
The storm moves quietly, invisibly, yet leaves destruction in its wake. Red blossoms mark every step. Steel flashes where justice is demanded. And the whispers grow louder with every passing night: the Windshadow hunts, and no one is safe.
~~
Rain begins at dusk. It does not fall heavily at first—only a thin, persistent drizzle that darkens stone tiles and turns dust into quiet mud. The town of Heiyang rests beneath the clouds like a creature holding its breath. Lanterns glow behind paper windows. Doors close earlier than usual. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolls once, then falls silent.
Zhen Yan stands on the ridge of a tiled roof, unmoving. The bamboo hat shelters him from the rain. Water trails down the ghost mask in thin, silver lines, dripping from the chin like melting frost. His black robes cling lightly to his frame, red blossoms at the hem darkened by moisture, their patterns seeming almost alive as they brush the wet tiles.
Below him lies Heiyang's central street—wide, orderly, prosperous in appearance. But Zhen Yan does not look at the street. He lifts his head for a glance.
The ledger taken from the assassin two villages back had named a man. Xu Ren.
Coordinator. Overseer. The hand that moves the knives without ever holding one.
"He does not dirty his hands," the ledger had said. "He watches."
Zhen Yan exhales slowly before he moves. Crossing rooftops without sound, feet landing where tiles are strongest, weight distributed with practiced ease. The pouring rain masks the faint whispers of motion. From above, Heiyang is a maze of angles and shadows—perfect for someone who understands height and silence.
Xu Ren's residence sits near the inner district, larger than the surrounding homes but modest enough to avoid attention. Two guards stand at the gate, cloaks drawn tight against the rain. Their eyes scan the street, never the roofs. They never look up.
Zhen Yan passes over them like a drifting shadow.
He lands behind the residence, crouched beside a narrow skylight. Warm light spills through the papered opening. Voices drift upward—measured, controlled, unhurried.
"…three villages compromised," a voice says. Calm. Educated. "Adjust the routes. Replace the blades."
"Yes, sir," another replies. Nervous.
Zhen Yan listens.
Xu Ren speaks again. "Fear spreads faster than steel. Let them whisper. It will draw him out."
A pause.
Then, quietly. "The Windshadow bleeds like any man."
Zhen Yan's fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword.
He does not burst through the skylight or announce himself.
Instead, a single dagger slips from his sleeve and drops soundlessly through the paper, embedding itself in the wooden beam beside the table below.
Silence crashes into the room. Another dagger follows—this one striking the floor between two seated men.
The lantern flickers, then Zhen Yan descends, landing inside the room with barely a sound, rain dripping from his robes, sword still sheathed. The ghost mask turns slowly, taking in the scene: three men frozen in shock, documents scattered across the table, and at the far end—Xu Ren. Middle-aged man in lean robes, with his eyes unsettling calm.
The guards rush in too late. Two precise movements—daggers flash, wrists are struck, weapons fall. No blood spills. The guards collapse unconscious, breath intact. Zhen Yan closes the door behind them.
"You are punctual," Xu Ren says, standing slowly. His gaze does not waver. "I wondered how long it would take."
Zhen Yan keeps silence still before finally stepping forward, but Xu Ren moves first. A hidden blade slides from his sleeve, striking low and fast. Zhen Yan draws his sword in one smooth motion, deflecting the strike with a clean ring of steel. The sound echoes sharply in the confined space. The duel spills outward, window shatters as Xu Ren leaps through it, landing on the slick rooftops beyond. Zhen Yan follows immediately, feet barely touching the tiles as rain intensifies, turning the city into a sea of reflected lantern-light. They clash across the roofs—steel flashing, daggers spinning, rain scattering under every step.
Xu Ren is skilled. He uses terrain, angles, and misdirection. He throws blades not to kill, but to herd, to test. Zhen Yan reads every motion, responding not with fury, but with cold precision.
"You're efficient," Xu Ren calls out, skidding across a roof's edge. "But you are only cutting branches."
Zhen Yan's sword hums as he deflects another blade. "Then tell me where the roots are."
Xu Ren laughs softly. "You already know. You just don't want to believe it."
They collide again—steel meeting steel, daggers striking and rebounding. Rain pours down, washing tiles slick, blurring the world into motion and sound.
Xu Ren missteps, but even only for a moment, it is enough.
Zhen Yan disarms him with a precise twist, sword pressing to his throat as they land on a broad, flat roof overlooking the city. Lanterns glow below like scattered stars.
Xu Ren breathes heavily, rain streaking his face.
"You think killing me ends this?" he asks quietly. "The orders come from higher than villages. Higher than towns."
Zhen Yan leans closer. "Then you will speak."
Xu Ren does.
He speaks of councils hidden behind silk curtains. Of families whose names never appear on ledgers. Of "purges" carried out for amusement, for testing loyalty, for sport.
And of a great house—ancient, wealthy, untouchable—that delights in pruning the weak.
Zhen Yan listens without interruption.
When Xu Ren finishes, the rain has softened into a mist.
"You've served them well," Zhen Yan says at last. "But service does not excuse cruelty."
Xu Ren closes his eyes. "I know."
Zhen Yan strikes once. When he rises, the rooftop is empty save for falling rain and a single red blossom caught in a crack between tiles.
By dawn, Heiyang wakes to rumors.
They say the man above the roofs has come and gone. That a master of the knife fell without a scream. That the Windshadow spared guards, spared servants, spared those who never raised a blade.
In the underworld, fear spreads.
In the halls of the powerful, unease stirs.
And far away, in places where wealth and blood intertwine, something ancient turns its gaze toward the wind.
Zhen Yan walks alone with rain washing the past from his robes.