Though the mountains are quiet at dusk, the air never lies. Every breeze carries a hint of unease. In valleys, lanterns flicker not because of wind, but because someone watches. Villages that once slumbered in obedience now whisper names—Windshadow—and traders close doors a moment longer than required, sensing the pulse of a story unfolding too close to home.
Zhen Yan does not move fast. He walks along a ridge road, ghost mask shadowed beneath the fading sun. Behind him, the three companions keep pace. None speak; words are heavy and unnecessary. Their presence is proof enough: the Windshadow does not travel alone anymore, and those who choose him do so at great risk.
The first to join silently appears at a crossroads where the river splits. A young man, barely older than a boy, robes torn but clean beneath the dirt, sword sheathed but fingers restless on the hilt. He steps from the trees, bowing low enough to graze the tips of his shoes. "I've been told stories," he says quietly, voice steady despite tremor. "Of you… of what you do. I want to follow, if you allow it."
Zhen Yan pauses. The boy's intent is clear. No words of flattery, no fear, no hesitation. Just resolve. "I do not promise safety," Zhen Yan says, hand brushing the dagger at his side.
"I do not seek it," the boy replies. "I only seek the right path."
Simply a fine nod, Zhen Yan allows him to walk beside the group. And by nightfall, more arrive—not announced, not requested. A healer from the northern valleys, skilled in herbs and wounds. A swordswoman once sent by the main house to capture him who now kneels briefly before walking alongside him without another word.
Each step forward adds weight, adds faces, adds stories. Zhen Yan senses it. The Windshadow is no longer merely a shadow. He does not speak of loyalty. That word died for him long ago. But action breeds allegiance.
Meanwhile, far to the south, within the main house's highest hall, whispers begin to thread through the stone corridors like a slow poison.
"They follow him willingly," one elder says, lips tight. "Our orders are ignored."
Another slams a hand on the carved armrest, eyes narrowed. "They see him as… what? A savior? A threat? A child of someone we denied?"
A third, quiet until now, shakes his head. "Blood does not forget itself. He is… proof. Proof that our control is not absolute."
Orders are drafted. Retracted. Rewritten. Doubts spread faster than commands. Trust fractures in silence. The main house, which once ruled with near-absolute authority, now faces hesitation. And hesitation is the seed of collapse.
Back in the valleys, Zhen Yan camps beneath a ruined watchtower overlooking the convergence of two rivers. The companions sit in a loose circle, some sharpening weapons, some tending to minor injuries from the previous encounters. The wind carries the faint scent of smoke from distant fires—signals of unrest spreading like wildfire.
He kneels, resting his elbows on his knees. The ghost mask tilted slightly back, eyes catching the last light of the sun. "They will send others," he says quietly. "Stronger. Faster. More disciplined. They will not understand mercy."
The swordsman at his side nods. "Then we will be ready."
Zhen Yan glances at the new arrivals. Each one bears the marks of choice—some fear, some defiance, all intent. The paths of destiny twist here, beneath this broken tower, and the threads of consequence weave tighter with every heartbeat.
He stands, lifting his sword. Its edge catches the fading sun, glinting red like the blossoms stitched along his hem. "They do not yet know," he murmurs, voice low. "But the tree of blood is about to fall—and every root it touches will bleed truth."
The companions fall silent. The wind responds, rustling through the ruined stones as if agreeing. Zhen Yan's shadow stretches long across the ridge. He is no longer merely a man in black robes. He is a signal. A reckoning. A movement. And the main house senses it, though they cannot yet name it.
Dawn breaks pale and thin over the northern ridges.
Zhen Yan stands at the edge of a cliff, ghost mask tilted back slightly, surveying the valley below. Mist snakes through the hills, carrying with it the faint scent of smoke, iron, and something older—memory. He does not need the wind to tell him; instinct whispers that someone is coming.
Not ordinary pursuers or mere enforcers. These are hunters who know him, how he moves, thinks, and strikes. They were chosen not for strength alone, but for knowledge—knowledge stitched into muscle and bone by the hands of the main house.
He lowers his sword slightly, letting it rest against his shoulder. The three companions closest to him—swordsman, spearwoman, monk—shift in unison, reading the same tension in the air. "They send those who understand," Zhen Yan murmurs. "They hope understanding will be the end of me."
From the mist, shapes emerge. Five figures, each mounted on black steeds, each wearing a mask unlike any Zhen Yan has seen before—half black, half white, their eyes sharp, piercing, and full of calculation. Their leader rides slightly ahead, carrying a folded banner painted with a crimson blossom over a dark field. A signal he does not recognize, yet instinctively respects. He watches them descend, slow, controlled, as if every step, every beat of the horse's hoof, is measured to the rhythm of inevitability.
"They know the Zhen Family's ways," the spearwoman whispers. "They were trained in it."
"Then we test it," Zhen Yan says quietly. "If they fight me… they learn. If they hesitate… they die."
The first clash occurs at the river bend. Zhen Yan moves like wind, daggers spinning outward to strike horse hooves, stirrups, and guards' sleeves. Sword arcs follow with fluid precision, forcing the hunters to separate, regroup, and approach again. Yet each move the hunters make is calculated, anticipating his patterns, pressing him to adapt faster than ever. They have knowledge—his family's movements, habits, even the stories of him as a boy—but they have underestimated one thing: necessity.
Every step Zhen Yan takes is a product of survival, every strike honed by fire and death. Knowledge may guide them, but it cannot predict how far he will go when blood demands it.
Hours pass in a blur of motion, dust, and steel.
Two hunters are knocked from their horses, one horse flees, the fourth is disarmed but still alive. Only the leader remains mounted, advancing with a calculated patience that chills Zhen Yan more than brute force ever could.
"You have grown," the leader says from atop the horse, voice carrying clearly over the clash of steel. "But do you know who you are fighting?"
Zhen Yan tilts his head. "I fight the ones who sent my family to die."
The leader's eyes flicker. "And yet… the blood they denied you flows through your veins. You are the last branch of what they destroyed."
A silence follows, filled with the sounds of horses, the river, the wind through the cliffs—and the faint realization that the man on the horse knows something Zhen Yan himself has not yet pieced together. They fight again, blade against blade, hoof against stone. Daggers flash, deflecting precise strikes. Zhen Yan does not kill—not yet—but the cracks in the hunters' formation deepen. Every parry, every counter, forces hesitation. Behind him, the companions move as one, covering weaknesses, reinforcing strikes, learning alongside him. Zhen Yan watches them, a faint recognition in his chest. They are no longer merely followers—they are extensions of himself, fragments of shadow and steel.
And together, they test the hunters' patience.
By nightfall, the hunters retreat not beaten but marked. Every move they made against Zhen Yan has been recorded, every habit studied, every flaw noted. The leader lowers his banner, a silent message carried to the main house: he adapts.
Zhen Yan kneels briefly beside the river, letting the water catch his reflection beneath the ghost mask. Red blossoms gleam faintly on his hem, as if remembering the blood he carries. "They know more than they should," he mutters. "And yet… they do not understand me at all."
The companions kneel beside him, eyes steady. The swordsman speaks first: "What now?" Zhen Yan rises, ghost mask back in place. Sword slides free from its sheath with a whisper. "Now," he says, voice low, "we walk toward the roots. The main house is no longer sending hunters. They are sending the past itself."
The wind stirs. It carries the scent of smoke, the river's freshness, and the first faint trace of something he has long denied—blood calling to blood, and for the first time in years, Zhen Yan feels the faint pull of the truth he buried with his family.