The north wind cut like knives, sweeping in from the far end of the snowy plains. It carried shards of ice, stinging every patch of exposed skin.
Between heaven and earth, there was nothing but white. A single, hoof-beaten courier road wound away into the gray horizon.
Xiao Lang bent low, pulling the hemp rope tight across his shoulder. The cartload of military rations was as heavy as a dead ox, and the wheels sank half an inch into the snow, refusing to budge.
A soldier guarding the rations stood nearby, huddled in his cloak, puffing hot breath into the cold air. He lazily rapped his spear against the ground."Move it, exile! If we're not in town before sundown, you can spend the night frozen in the ice ditch!"
Xiao Lang said nothing. He kept his head down, driving his weight into the rope.
The crack of a whip lashed across his back, sending a dull pain through his body.
He glanced up toward the road ahead—darkness was creeping in. The wind was no longer merely cold; there was something in it, something moving in the depths of the snow-fog.
Then came the sound—low, urgent hoofbeats.They were not the hollow clatter of travel, but the deep, muffled thunder of weight and speed.
Before the guards could react, shadows burst from both sides of the road—dozens of figures in coarse cloth, faces wrapped in crimson scarves. Snowlight flashed along the edges of their curved blades as they rushed forward with wild shouts.
"Bandits!" the soldier swore, raising his spear—only for it to be sheared clean in half by a single downward slash.
Snow sprayed, and blood followed—bright against the white, like a sudden bloom of red plum blossoms.
Xiao Lang looked up and recognized the man at their head: gaunt, eyes sharp and venomous—the same stranger who had watched him from a market crowd weeks ago.
The man's lips curled in a cruel smile."Half a month I've been looking for you, and finally—"
He didn't finish.
A streak of cold light cut through the snow.
A sword.
The blade's arrival was like a falling star—swift, blinding, and deadly—forcing back the three men who had lunged for Xiao Lang.
"Go!"
The voice was clear and youthful, yet carried a steel edge that left no room for argument.
Xiao Lang turned toward the sound and saw him—a young man in a snow-dusted blue robe, hair speckled with frost, a long slender sword at his waist. His gaze was deep and calm as still water, and his steps impossibly light for someone moving through snow.
A rain of swordlight followed.
The blue-robed youth's technique was unnervingly fast. There was no wasted motion, no flourish—only precise, lethal strikes. Blades rang in the wind, the sound brittle as ice beads scattering on stone.
Xiao Lang felt a flicker of recognition. This was no scholar's fencing style—it was the killing art of an assassin. Every thrust sought a vital point, and every stroke was clean, decisive, and without hesitation.
In the chaos, Xiao Lang wrenched the wrist of a bandit beside him until it snapped, seized the man's curved blade, and brought another attacker down with a single reverse strike. His movements were calm, fluid, and dangerously efficient—nothing like the clumsy labor of a convict.
The bandits, startled by such resistance from both cart and prisoner, faltered and fell back a few paces.
Only the sound of harsh breathing remained between them.
"My thanks," Xiao Lang said quietly.
The blue-robed youth said nothing. He stooped and plucked something from the snow—a black metal token etched with a strange sigil that resembled a burning wick. He slipped it into his robe.
Xiao Lang's eyes narrowed.
That sigil… he knew it well.The Night Lamp Assassins—the deadliest name in the underworld.
Three years ago, in a single night, three high ministers of the Great Yin court had been found dead, their throats slit in their own chambers. The killers had all been from Night Lamp.
And here, in this frozen nowhere, stood a man carrying their token.
"Come with me," the youth said, turning away.
"Why?" Xiao Lang asked.
"If you want to live, don't ask."
The wind howled again. Behind them, the bandits were regrouping.
Xiao Lang didn't hesitate further. He grabbed a sack of grain from the cart and followed the youth into the trees.
The snow in the woods came up to their shins, each step crunching sharply. They moved quickly, two shadows swallowed by the wind.
After half a mile, the youth stopped, raising a hand.From somewhere ahead came the faint, deliberate crunch of footsteps—pursuers, and moving fast.
"North," Xiao Lang murmured.
"East," the youth corrected.
Their eyes met—understanding flashed. They split without a word, vanishing into the snow-mist.
For ten heartbeats, the forest rang with short, violent bursts of steel and breath.
When Xiao Lang returned to their meeting point, the youth was already there, sword tip dripping red, his gaze as cold as the wind.
"Move," he said.
They traveled in silence until the sky turned black as ink and the snowy expanse yielded to the faint glow of a broken shrine in the distance.
"Here for the night," the youth said.
Inside, the place was deserted, a cracked clay Buddha watching over a dust-covered altar. The youth lit a fire and hung his damp clothes nearby. Xiao Lang sat apart, watching the sword at the youth's waist.
"What's your name?" Xiao Lang asked.
"Gu Jinnian," he replied without looking up.
Xiao Lang let the silence settle, chewing on a piece of dry bread.
In the firelight, Gu Jinnian's shadow stretched long and thin. Still, calm—like a pool with dangerous depths beneath.
When the wind finally rose again, whistling through the broken shutters, Xiao Lang drifted between waking and sleep—until he heard it.
A whisper. Low, almost like the murmur of a dream, but clear enough to chill the blood.
"Kill… the Crown Prince…"
Xiao Lang's eyes opened. The fire crackled, and Gu Jinnian sat there in perfect stillness, his face calm, but the shadow between his brows was sharp as an unsheathed blade.