The deeper they move into the estate, the heavier the air becomes. The walls close in, carved panels depicting generations of wealth and authority, but also subtle horrors: scenes of punishment, obedience enforced through cruelty, and hands that once ruled with pride now frozen in silent condemnation. Zhen Yan feels it beneath the ghost mask—the weight of secrets buried in stone and shadow.
The companions move behind him, silent but alert, their footsteps muffled against polished floors. Each hallway twists unpredictably, lined with false doors, hidden pits, and shadowed recesses that promise death for a single misstep. Zhen Yan's senses are stretched to their limits, reading the estate like an open manuscript of strategy, cruelty, and fear.
They reach the first hidden chamber.
A panel slides silently under the pressure of Zhen Yan's fingers, revealing a spiral staircase leading down into darkness. The air smells of damp stone, old paper, and decay. He descends first, daggers spinning lightly in each hand, sword sheathed but ready to leap into motion. Behind him, the companions follow, a silent phalanx of motion and intent. At the bottom, they enter a vast archive. Scrolls and ledgers line the walls, organized meticulously. Candles burn low, the flickering light revealing details of contracts, secret operations, and lists of villages—those destroyed, those subjugated, and those whose families were harvested for amusement or power.
Zhen Yan kneels, running gloved fingers over a ledger. Names of families long forgotten, names of assassins contracted, names of those who carried out atrocities without question—all meticulously recorded. His chest tightens, rage pooling beneath the calm mask.
"They kept records," the monk mutters. "Every family they destroyed, every life they touched… noted, archived. They treated people like chess pieces."
Zhen Yan nods, jaw tight. "And now every piece will be reclaimed."
A rustle echoes through the chamber. Zhen Yan spins, daggers slicing through the dim air. Shadows move along the walls—figures emerging from hidden doors, descendants of his bloodline who had orchestrated parts of the Zhen Family's demise.
"You've come far," one of them says, a smirk beneath a mask of silk. "But these records… they are not for you to touch."
Zhen Yan steps forward, voice cold. "I touch what belongs to me. You record death as if it were art. Now you will face its consequences."
Steel flashes. Daggers whirl, sword arcs intercept, companions move like extensions of his will. The chamber becomes a deadly dance—every strike calculated, every movement precise. The enemies are skilled, trained by the house to anticipate attacks, yet they are unprepared for the synergy of Zhen Yan and his companions.
By the time the clash ends, the chamber is littered with unconscious and disarmed figures. Scrolls remain untouched, a testament to Zhen Yan's restraint. His ghost mask tilts slightly forward as he surveys the aftermath.
He opens another ledger, discovering something chilling: not only had his adoptive family been destroyed, but this estate had orchestrated similar tragedies across countless villages for decades. Names, dates, and even the methods of execution are detailed with horrifying precision.
"They are worse than I imagined," Zhen Yan mutters. "And I have only scratched the surface."
The companions exchange glances, understanding the scale of the war they are about to inherit. The enemies are not merely skilled killers—they are architects of cruelty, masters of manipulation, and blood relatives who had chosen amusement over morality.
Zhen Yan stands, sheathing his sword. "We continue," he says. "Every corridor, every hidden room, every lie will face truth. And every hand that betrayed loyalty, every breath stolen, will answer to us."
The chamber falls silent. Outside, the estate's shadows stretch long and restless, waiting for the reckoning that now moves deliberately through its heart.
The corridors narrow, shadows twisting unnaturally around the ornate carvings of the estate. Each step Zhen Yan takes echoes like a warning, each breath mingling with the scent of candle smoke and the faint tang of iron. The archives behind them remain intact, scrolls and ledgers untouched—a reminder that knowledge is power, and power must be wielded deliberately. At the end of the hall, a heavy door carved with crimson blossoms and gold inlay stands as a barrier. From behind it comes the faintest sound of movement, deliberate and controlled.
Zhen Yan halts. Ghost mask tilted, sword resting lightly against his shoulder, daggers ready. He signals his companions silently. The swordsman and spearwoman take positions flanking him, the monk stepping slightly behind, all movements precise, rehearsed, and deadly. He steps forward, voice low but carrying authority. "I know you are inside. Step forward. Face the one whose hands orchestrated the death of my family."
The door opens slowly. A man emerges—tall, regal, hair streaked with gray, eyes sharp beneath a silk mask. The sigil on his chest matches the ones Zhen Yan has seen in his memories: the mark of the main house, of the family that ordered the massacre of the Zhen Family for sport.
"Zhen Yan," the man says calmly, almost theatrically. "So you have finally arrived at the heart. And yet… are you the hunter, or merely the shadow of one?"
Zhen Yan tilts his head beneath the mask. "I am both. And I am here to repay every debt in blood."
The man chuckles, voice smooth and cold. "You have grown, certainly. But growth alone does not grant understanding. You seek vengeance, yet you do not grasp the design. My amusement… the killings… the tests—they were all part of shaping you. And now, shaped, you strike back at the hands that molded you."
Zhen Yan steps closer, daggers spinning in anticipation, sword whispering softly against its sheath. "Your amusement is over. Every life you took, every family you destroyed, every lie you wove… ends with me."
The duel begins.
The orchestrator moves with surprising agility, sword striking first in a series of precise, calculated blows. Zhen Yan responds, daggers deflecting strikes, sword arcs slicing through defenses, every movement a blend of instinct and practiced skill. The companions flank, intercepting hidden assassins who emerge from shadowed recesses, every attack a test of loyalty and synchronization. Steel clashes, echoing through the hall. The orchestrator smiles beneath the mask, eyes cold and calculating. "Do you feel it, Zhen Yan? The weight of all you have lost, the power you have gained… and the emptiness beneath it?"
Zhen Yan responds with a spin of daggers, slicing through the orchestrator's guard. "Emptiness is irrelevant. Action is what defines me. Blood repaid… that is all that matters."
The fight intensifies.
The orchestrator employs the tricks of the house: collapsing floors, concealed spikes, swinging blades from above. Zhen Yan counters with precision, adapting with each step, teaching his companions the rhythm of survival even as he tests their reflexes. They move as extensions of his will, a deadly orchestra of motion and steel.
Finally, with a flick of his dagger and a decisive arc of his sword, Zhen Yan disarms the orchestrator, sending him sprawling to the floor. The companions flank, weapons ready to strike, but Zhen Yan steps forward alone, ghost mask reflecting firelight. "You toyed with lives. You played with loyalty, love, and family. Now you will witness the consequence of your amusement."
The orchestrator glares, mask tilted, chest heaving. "And yet… do you not see? I am still only part of the circle. Others wait beyond these walls. You will never reach the center without facing them all."
Zhen Yan's grip tightens. "Then we continue. Every hand complicit, every breath stolen, every lie… will fall beneath my blade."
The orchestrator exhales slowly, almost in admiration. "So be it, Windshadow. Let us see if your resolve carries to the heart of the storm."
Outside, the estate sleeps uneasily, shadows stretching across corridors and halls, waiting for the next reckoning to unfold. Zhen Yan, ghost mask glinting red and black, leads his companions deeper into the labyrinth of blood, and the true extent of the main house's cruelty begins to reveal itself.