The Jackal drew in a breath to spit one more line. Mingyu lifted one finger. The breath stayed where it had landed.
Yaozu drew steel, point angled down. "Clean," he murmured.
"Clean," Deming echoed.
"Clean," Longzi confirmed, adjusting the light for the angle.
Yizhen fed the torch with a twist of dry grass. Flame woke bright and eager.
Mingyu lowered his hand.
The stroke cut sound. The body folded, quick as punctuation, and blood met cold stone and learned not to spread far.
Yizhen leaned, touched heat along chain ends to erase rumor.
Deming dragged the weight of the dead body to the edge with efficient hands that turned sacks and men the same way.
Yaozu wiped the blade once on a cloth that remembered harder nights and slid the steel back home.
Longzi held the door while two yard men with blank faces and lime-burned boots came in, lifted what remained, and carried it toward pits that did not keep stories.
