"XIAO-LIAN—"
Half-asleep, Xiahou Lian thought he heard his mother's voice call faintly, as if from a distant mountain. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up in bed, then slowly walked to the door and pushed it open. A blast of cold wind rushed in, sending a sharp shiver through his body.
"Mother?" he called out. "Are you back?"
No one answered.
He opened the door to Xiahou Pei's room, but it looked the same as it had yesterday—there was no sign that she'd returned. Panic rose in his chest. Grabbing his coat, he ran to Qiu Ye's house.
Qiu Ye was feeding the chickens; he had a few feathers stuck to his felt hat.
"Shifu! My mother's still not back!" Xiahou Lian called from behind the fence.
"Something on the way might've slowed her down," Qiu Ye said, looking up at him. "Don't worry, Xiao-Lian."
"I know," Xiahou Lian said. "I'm sure she just got slowed down. But I want to go meet her. With the mountain all snowed in, I'm worried she'll get lost."
"Go ahead, Xiao-Lian," Qiu Ye said gently. "No one will stop you. But remember to take the antidote from the alms bowl in the temple."
Xiahou Lian nodded hard and ran off.
The ruins of the mountain temple, with their broken pillars and beams laid bare, couldn't block the icy winds sweeping through Tianwang Hall. A monk in black robes—the abbot—sat huddled at the foot of a Buddha statue, rhythmically striking a temple block with a stick.
Xiahou Lian crept up behind the abbot and reached for the alms bowl beside his cushion. It was full of dark pills, just enough for all the assassins. Xiahou Lian took two, then silently retreated. As he exited Tianwang Hall, the abbot stirred and opened his eyes as though just waking from slumber, then calmly turned a page of the scripture.
Xiahou Lian stole Uncle Duan's old horse and a jug of wine, slung a bag over his shoulder, and braved the snowstorm alone to descend the mountain. No one could have guessed how he made it to the base. When he emerged there, covered head to toe in snow, he looked like a snowman; the villagers at first mistook him for a mountain spirit. Uncle Duan's old horse was on its last legs, so Xiahou Lian swapped it for another, then rode day and night to Liuzhou.
Liuzhou was a small city, spanning just five hundred yards from north to south. Arriving at dawn, Xiahou Lian dismounted at the city gate and used a map to begin searching for hidden Garden bases. There were five such bases in Liuzhou, and each ran a secret den where assassins could rest; the assassins called them "relay stations." These dens were often hidden in the homes of undercover agents, sometimes in cellars or secret chambers behind cabinets. The agents were usually ordinary civilians. Some even appeared to live in poverty, but when the doors to their homes opened, one found Russian carpets, walls embedded with luminous pearls, and even golden chamber pots. In the capital, the dens went a step further, offering courtesans to entertain the visiting assassins. The abbot was too stingy to repair the mountain temple, but he spared no expense adorning the hidden dens—all to ensure that the assassins were at their best when it came time to deliver a fatal strike.
Xiahou Pei rarely stayed in the dens. She found them cramped and stuffy, and the agents' cooking often failed to meet her standards. Every year, she would help herself to Qiu Ye's human-faced masks, then lodge boldly in the finest inns and feast at the best restaurants, even picking fights with drunkards when the mood struck. Though she was a solitary assassin, Xiahou Pei loved bustling places. Back when she still brought the young Xiahou Lian down the mountain, she often took him to temples to watch operas or to brothels to listen to songs. Little Xiahou Lian would be passed from one girl to another as they teased and prodded him, their soft bosoms and intoxicating perfumes leaving him lightheaded.
Now, Xiahou Lian walked from the brothel district in the south to a cosmetics shop in the east, then to a mortuary in the west, questioning each agent along the way. As he expected, none had seen the Garuda. Finally, he found the room she'd stayed in. The innkeeper said she'd paid for three months but only stayed for half that time. Instead of leaving the room empty for her, they'd given it to another guest.
Certain that she hadn't brought a sheath this time either, the frustrated Xiahou Lian kicked the wall. If she hadn't requested specifically that the Garden assign her a sheath, no such order would've been sent to this location. And since she avoided the dens, Liuzhou's agents naturally had no clue where she was.
Maybe she'd already left the city, and they'd simply missed each other. Xiahou Lian wandered the streets, carrying his bag. By noon, the avenues were bustling, vendors shuttling their wares back and forth as they shouted. Manure-cart drivers dumped their loads into the river by the bucketful, the rushing water carrying the filth away. People jostled shoulder to shoulder—some with children, some with wives, some adorned with gold or silver, and some barefoot.
Xiahou Lian eventually arrived at the north market. This was the liveliest spot in Liuzhou. Food vendors sold buns and steamed bread in the mornings, then rice noodles and soup in the afternoons. Others lined peculiar trinkets up on display. Ahead, a crowd had gathered; they whispered and pointed at something. When Xiahou Lian looked, he saw a foul-smelling corpse buzzing with flies, its flesh rotted and crawling with yellow and white maggots. He quickly walked away, too disgusted even to eat.
That afternoon, Xiahou Lian visited Jingdao Villa to investigate. Everything appeared normal—two fierce-looking guards stood watch at the gate, and there were no white funeral banners or signs of mourning. His heart sank. When he asked the townsfolk whether anything unusual had happened at the residence, they fell silent, as though even speaking of the place might cost their lives.
There was no doubt about it—Xiahou Pei had failed. But where had she gone? Maybe she was injured and unable to travel, forced into hiding. Xiahou Lian's concern grew. When he went by the corpse again, he'd learned his lesson; he covered his nose and quickly walked past.
If she was injured, why hadn't she gone to a den to recuperate? If she wasn't injured, she must have left already, likely just missing him. Perhaps she was already back at the Garden, sleeping soundly in their home. Xiahou Lian headed to the relay station and sent a letter to the Garden's village at the foot of the mountain asking whether anyone had seen Xiahou Pei return.
As the sun set, its rich golden light spilled over the stone-paved roads, glazing the moss in a shimmering glow. Xiahou Lian had been walking all day; his legs ached, and his feet were ready to give out. Sitting down on a random step, he pulled out his canteen and took a sip. He was at the entrance to the north market, quiet now that the evening crowds were gone. Only a few solitary stalls remained. A tanghulu some child had dropped lay on the ground, rolling gently in the breeze.
The corpse was finally alone. It lay in the middle of the street, ragged and disheveled. Xiahou Lian felt a pang of pity for it. The body was headless, its left arm severed, and a rope was wrapped around the stump of its neck. The head, he saw, had rolled to the side—Xiahou Lian was sure it hadn't been there before, so someone must've kicked it. Now it lay facing him, its empty eye sockets staring in his direction.
Golden sunset washed over the street, bathing the corpse in a thin sheen of gold. Xiahou Lian stared silently, a sudden chill spreading across his face. He touched his cheek and realized he was crying.
As if pulled by some unseen force, he rose and walked slowly to the corpse, step by step. The head remained still, but Xiahou Lian felt the weight of its empty eye sockets on him, watching him approach until he finally stopped at the corpse's side.
Xiahou Lian brushed aside the filthy braids covering the victim's face. The features were mangled, slashed repeatedly by a blade. Who could have harbored such hatred? Someone had thrown the corpse into the marketplace for public humiliation—so why destroy its face? The body was riddled with blade wounds, its shoulders and back hacked nearly to shreds and its bones shattered into fragments. Fat maggots wriggled from the decaying flesh and crept over Xiahou Lian's fingertips.
Who was this?
Xiahou Lian was scared. He wanted to stand up straight and leave but felt as if an invisible hand pressed down on his shoulder, rooting him in place. A moment later, his gaze fell on the tattered hem of the corpse's garments. It was the most ordinary, coarse clothing. The hems of the black fabric had been clumsily finished with uneven stitches and loose threads sticking out. The tailor clearly hadn't been too skilled.
As Xiahou Lian caught sight of that hem, his mind went completely blank. All hearing and sight left him. The world around him dissolved, leaving only that thin piece of fabric in focus.
He'd sewn that hem himself.
Xiahou Pei couldn't sew. Whenever she tried, she'd fix one hole only to create another. Xiahou Lian had picked up the needle himself out of necessity, learning to stitch, cut patterns, and even embroider. He'd made the garment before him last autumn after Xiahou Pei complained that her old clothes were torn. She'd shamelessly insisted that he make her something new, claiming that only the clothes her son sewed felt right.
It had to be a trick. He had to be mistaken—how could clothes he'd made have ended up on some stranger? His mother was surely still somewhere else, waiting for him to find her. She has to be. She just has to be!
Xiahou Lian clamped a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle the sobs rising in his throat. But tears kept coming, streaming down his cheeks and onto his hands, scalding his fingers like searing brands.
Suddenly, he recognized her. Though her face was disfigured beyond recognition, the body still bore traces of Xiahou Pei. This grotesque corpse was his mother.
Silent grief pressed his shoulders like iron, despair flooding his veins. He wanted to scream, to roar, but when he opened his mouth, only strangled sobs escaped. Trembling, he cradled Xiahou Pei's body in his arms. She was light as a cloud; the faintest touch was likely to destroy her. She really had been destroyed—beneath her decaying flesh, not a bone remained unshattered.
Xiahou Lian's mind was in turmoil. There was Xiahou Pei, snatching his roasted sweet potato when he was a child; her dark, slender silhouette in the rain outside the Lu residence; her wild laughter as she swung her blade. Then all those vivid images faded, leaving only her muddy, decaying corpse and oppressive silence. Sharp, searing pain tore through his heart like his chest was being ripped open, unending flames surging within. Xiahou Lian collapsed to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably.
Heavy footsteps resounded from the end of the street, shaking the ground beneath him. Xiahou Lian raised his eyes to see a hawklike man astride a horse. He led a vast tide of disciples, each carrying a three-foot katana saber and marching in perfect tandem—left foot, right foot—like a disciplined army.
That was him! His mother's killer!
Xiahou Lian gently placed Xiahou Pei's body on the ground, unsheathed his saber, and let out a hoarse howl.
At that moment, he was a lone wolf driven into a corner, an orphaned cub baring its sharpest fangs at the enemy. His breath rattled, his lungs straining like broken bellows. His coldly gleaming blade reflected his glaring, bloodshot eyes.
Kill him! Kill him! Kill him! That maddening thought burned like fire in his mind, a deep fury coursing through his veins like an unleashed dragon. Xiahou Lian raised his saber, ready to charge and claim his revenge.
But just as he took his first step forward, a sharp blow landed on the back of his neck. All the strength in his body vanished at once, and he crumpled to the ground.
Xiahou Lian's eyes stayed wide open, locked onto that man: his gray-streaked hair and beard, and the face that looked as though it had been carved by a blade. But Xiahou Lian couldn't stop his strength from slipping away; even his eyelids grew as heavy as lead. At last, his eyes reluctantly closed, and the world plunged into darkness.