Chapter 7
The shrine flame still burned behind them, soft and blue.
Rui stood in its light, his chest heaving, blood trickling from the tear beneath his ribs. Yan Zhi leaned against a cracked pillar, face pale, breathing hard.
"She was stronger than the monks," he muttered. "And she wasn't even trying to kill me."
Yan Zhi didn't respond at first.
Then she said, "She was testing you."
He turned. "You think she was holding back?"
"I know it." She pulled a broken piece of her dagger from her boot. "She wanted to see what you'd do with fear."
Rui stared at the empty ruin where the Second Heir had vanished.
"I hate being tested."
"Get used to it," she said. "You're marked now."
They camped just outside the shrine ruins that night.
Too much energy had been spent. The Dragon Pulse within Rui had gone quiet, like it was sleeping—or hiding. And Yan Zhi, despite her usual iron nerves, was visibly shaken.
He noticed the way she kept checking her blades. Polishing. Sharpening. Like her fingers needed something to do to avoid what was coming.
"You're expecting something," Rui said.
She didn't look up. "They're coming."
"Who?"
"My past."
The next morning, Rui was up first.
He moved through the trees, body stiff but mobile. The shrine hadn't killed him. But it had left a mark—inside.
He could feel it.
The scroll hadn't revealed itself yet, but something had changed. His breathing was sharper. His sight, clearer.
And then he heard it.
The crunch of leaves.
Too light for a beast.
Too fast for a traveler.
He turned—too late.
A blur crashed into him from the side, sending him rolling down the slope.
When he stopped, a blade was at his throat.
"You're a hard woman to find, Yan Zhi," a voice said.
Not to him.
To someone behind.
Yan Zhi appeared at the ridge, swords drawn.
The man pinning Rui down didn't flinch.
He wore crimson armor. No insignia. But Rui didn't need one to guess—Crimson Fan Sect.
"How many?" Yan Zhi asked coldly.
"Five."
"You brought five to kill me?"
"Only four of us are here to kill you," the man said. "I came to ask why."
Yan Zhi's hands didn't move. "Why what?"
"Why you let the child live."
Rui blinked. What child?
The man continued, "It was a clean order. She was just a servant girl. You hesitated. Then you fled."
Yan Zhi's jaw tightened.
"I hesitated because I still had a soul," she said.
"That's not the life you swore to."
"No," she said. "It's the one I chose."
The man stood.
"Then you've chosen your death."
The moment he raised his hand, three other assassins dropped from the trees like ghosts.
Rui grabbed his dagger and scrambled to his feet.
"Tell me you have a plan," he muttered.
Yan Zhi flicked her blades out with a click. "Kill faster than they do."
The first assassin lunged. Rui ducked under a throwing needle, rolled, and kicked out—his foot connected with the attacker's thigh. Not enough to drop him, but enough to give him an opening.
He followed it up with a palm strike to the neck. Sharp. Precise.
The man dropped like a sack.
One down.
But not dead.
Yan Zhi didn't move like a fighter.
She moved like a memory—fluid, silent, exact.
Her blade danced through the first assassin's defenses and cut clean through his stomach. No wasted motion.
But two more closed in.
Rui turned, just in time to see one of them toss a smoke pellet.
The world went white.
His instincts screamed.
He moved on feel, not sight—parrying a blade he couldn't see, ducking a blow he didn't feel until after the edge grazed his arm.
He kicked forward, missed—caught the second assassin in a lucky shoulder slam.
Then the smoke cleared.
And he saw Yan Zhi surrounded.
She bled from a cut above her eye.
Her stance was lower now—defensive.
"Back off!" Rui shouted.
They didn't.
He opened the pulse.
Just a flicker.
Enough to send the earth humming beneath him. His aura surged, flaring blue and gold.
The assassins hesitated.
Yan Zhi moved.
This time, she didn't dance.
She killed.
One slash took off an arm.
A kick to the throat.
A blade through the chest.
Blood sprayed the forest floor like dark rain.
Rui stood there, stunned—not by the violence, but by her face.
She wasn't angry.
She wasn't afraid.
She looked like someone who'd done this before. Too many times.
The last assassin backed away, hand raised.
"We were only following orders," he said.
Yan Zhi walked toward him. "And now?"
He dropped his blade. "Now I'm unarmed."
She stopped.
Rui expected her to lower her weapon.
She didn't.
She stabbed him through the throat.
No words.
No hesitation.
Silence fell.
Rui wiped his bloodied hands on the grass. "They weren't wrong," he said quietly.
She looked up. "About what?"
"You used to be one of them."
She nodded. "I did."
He waited for more.
It didn't come.
"You were going to kill a kid?"
"I didn't," she said.
"That doesn't change the fact that you almost did."
"No," she said, finally meeting his eyes. "But it means I remember her name."
That stopped him.
"What was it?"
"Mei. She was nine. Had a pet fox. Hid it in the laundry when she wasn't supposed to."
He didn't say anything.
"I saw her face," Yan Zhi added. "And I couldn't forget it. That's when I knew I didn't belong with them."
Rui sat down, back against a tree. "You're not the only one running from something."
"I'm not running," she said. "I'm walking toward something else."
Later that night, they buried the bodies in silence.
Rui helped her without asking.
When it was done, he said, "You could've let them live."
"I know."
"They surrendered."
"No," she said. "They paused. That's different."
He didn't argue.
Because she was right.
They slept in shifts after that.
But just before Rui drifted off, he asked:
"Would you kill me, too?"
Yan Zhi didn't hesitate.
"If you ever hurt someone who didn't deserve it—yes."
He didn't sleep after that.
At dawn, as they left the graves behind, Rui whispered without turning:
If I ever become like the other heirs… will you stop me before it's too late?
And from behind him, her voice came—quiet and Steady.
"That's why I'm still here."