Morning sunlight filtered through the outer courtyard, painting long shadows across the cobbled path.
Han Li sat beneath the apricot tree with a clay teapot gently steaming on a wooden tray. He poured himself a cup, hands calm, movements precise.
The sect bustled nearby—but no one came close.
He was waiting.
A shadow flickered behind him.
"You sensed me," came a soft voice.
Han Li didn't look back. "I smelled your killing intent."
A woman stepped into the light. Slender, cloaked in tight black cloth, with two daggers strapped to her thighs. Her face was veiled, but her eyes gleamed like poisoned glass.
"You're hard to kill," she said, sitting across from him uninvited.
Han Li poured her tea.
"Most things worth keeping are."
She eyed the cup, but didn't drink.
"I'm not here to talk."
"Yet you're not striking."
Her fingers tapped the handle of a blade. "Orders changed. My master wants to speak first."
"Interesting," Han Li said, sipping. "He finally grew nervous."
She tilted her head. "He said you were once called—"
"Careful." Han Li's gaze lifted. "Names carry weight. That one's heavy enough to crack mountains."
A breeze passed between them.
She hesitated, then finally took a sip. Her eyes widened slightly.
"This is... good tea."
Han Li smiled. "Death tastes better with balance."
Silence settled. The assassin stood. "Next time, I won't be talking."
He nodded. "Bring stronger tea."
She vanished in a whisper of black.
Han Li leaned back, staring at the clouds.
Some enemies attacked with blades.
Others with invitations.
And both were dangerous.