The grand hall of Crescent Moon City's opulent residence breathed with a life of its own—a breath stifled by incense smoke and the weight of age-old obligations. Intricate tapestries hung like ghosts from the rafters, each depicting conquests inked in blood: serpent-men vanquished beneath the Valley of Bronze, the siege of Hollow Hill, the cleansing of the Ebony Lake. Yet now, those woven triumphs seemed more funeral cloth than celebration, for the city sat at the brink.
Light filtered through paper chandeliers, each lantern a lotus of gold and rice parchment, casting gentle flickers upon lacquered walls and watchful eyes. Beneath their glow, seated at the carved table of Twelve Vows, was City Lord Jie Mu, unmoving. He sat not like a man but like a relic—preserved, burnished, unyielding.
His robes bore the mark of ancient status: silk black as thunderclouds embroidered with golden dragons whose thread shimmered like scaled life. His hands rested atop a polished stone table carved from sunken Deeproot cedar—rumored to be older than the city itself. Silver hair framed his countenance like a crown of winter, and those who met his eyes often felt as though they looked into still water—placid, deep, and deadly.
"Speak," he ordered, voice a tempered steel—neither shout nor whisper, yet heard by all. "What matter commands our attention?"
Silence followed. Even the shuffling of robes ceased. Finally, the purple-robed adviser Chi Chao stepped forward, bowing with exaggerated grace.
"The Protector's Levy," he said, and the words struck like a slap. The room shuddered—not from quake nor spell, but tension made flesh. Eyebrows lifted. Fans twitched. Ankles shifted beneath flowing robes. One did not speak of the Levy so directly unless one sought provocation—or change.
'This viper bares his fangs in the light,' thought Jie Mu. A sin of ambition, but one long anticipated.
His expression did not flicker. "A pertinent matter," he said, smooth as an assassin's blade. "Let us hear the council's thoughts."
Before a breath could pass, another voice—cloaked in verdant silk and arrogance—interrupted. It belonged to Adviser Ma Fen, the green-robed whisperer who fancied himself heir to every vacuum of power. "My lord," he said, smirking, "shall we not wait for Bing Cao? The true chief adviser?"
A sharp "Hmph!" came from another end of the table—Adviser Lou Tan, ever-loyal to the old order. His fingers drummed once upon the table's surface, then stopped. The sound lingered like a challenge.
Jie Mu exhaled through his nose. He glanced once at the empty chair to his left, where Bing Cao had once sat—a seat of counsel, now a wound.
"Bing Cao remains absent, but not defeated," he declared. "We focus on the present. Let ghosts linger where they will."
But the air had changed. The scent of sandalwood could no longer mask the rot of ambition.
Chi Chao pressed his advantage. "The Protector's Levy is a veil," he said, each word poured like poison. "Ba Zi does not seek coin nor soldiers. He seeks your daughter's hand, and through it—your city's future."
Crrack.
It was subtle—the faint snap of knuckles tightening against wood—but those closest heard it. Heads dipped. Some flinched.
Still, Jie Mu did not rise. Instead, he smiled, but it was a smile devoid of warmth—thin as a knife's edge. "Ba Zi's ambitions are as visible as the midday sun. But we do not shield our eyes—we dissect the light until it reveals the cracks beneath his mask."
A murmur, hesitant, crept through the council. Then—
"And what of the strangers at our gate?" Adviser Ma Fen struck again. "The Unwavering Merchant, Wu Cheng, has camped for four days. Denied entry. Why provoke a figure so… lucrative?"
"Because Wu Cheng is no merchant," Jie Mu replied at once, his tone like a drawn bow. "He is a spider. His wares are bait, his caravans a web. Let him wait. Let him wither."
The remark drew nods from the older advisors, but the younger ones exchanged worried glances. The merchant's riches were legend—his reach, wider than any known sect.
Before debate could flare anew, the chamber doors flew open with a resounding BOOM. Iron-shod boots pounded marble as a guard stumbled forward, helm askew and chest heaving.
"My Lord Jie Mu!" he cried, collapsing to one knee. "Southern watch reports—cultivators! A host, bearing the banner of the Heavenly Sword Sect, approach the city!"
All composure shattered.
"The Heavenly Sword?!"
"Here?!"
"Have they come for the relic? For vengeance?"
Jie Mu rose.
It was not dramatic. It did not need to be. The motion alone was command incarnate. Advisors bit back words. The flicker of panic died mid-breath.
"Sound the inner bells," Jie Mu ordered. "Summon the Yang Guard. Wake the ward-masters. I want every rooftop watched, every gate fortified, and every scribe ready to dispatch news."
He paused. "And bring me my daughter."
There was a collective intake of breath—her involvement confirmed what many had only whispered: that the City Lord's daughter, Lian Mu, was now a piece upon the gameboard, whether she willed it or no.
As the guards scrambled, the City Lord turned to the wide eastern window. Dawn had just broken, and the skies above Crescent Moon City were painted in strokes of blood and fire. Red mist clung to rooftops. The old city, ancient and proud, cast long shadows—each tower a watchful sentinel.
Jie Mu folded his hands behind his back.
"The board is set," he murmured to himself. "The pieces move. May the gods forgive the things we must do."
Unseen by any in the hall, upon the eaves above the great window, perched a single yellow sparrow. Its feathers shimmered faintly with qi, and its eyes reflected more intelligence than any simple bird should possess. It tilted its head, watching, listening, learning.
Then, with a whisper of wings, it was gone—into the dawn, bearing secrets upon wind and sky.