The Frost Market's hum had dulled, as if the crowd sensed something moving beneath its skin. Qin Mo kept his pace steady, but every step echoed sharper than it should.
[Passive scan: Azure Flame operatives — three confirmed, two probable. Formation: spread flank, close tail.]
The Bellkeeper's eyes flicked once toward a row of narrow alleys. "They won't wait long."
Qin Mo didn't answer. He turned into the alley without breaking stride.
⸻
The snow here was untouched, a pale ribbon between walls of soot-stained brick. The first shadow detached from a doorway before the alley's mouth had fully swallowed the market noise.
A knife flashed low — not toward his chest, but his thigh. Disable, not kill.
Qin Mo caught the wrist, wrenched, and the knife clattered against the wall. The man staggered; the second came in silent, short spear aimed for the ribs.
[Combat log: enemy stance — street duelist; probable mercenary contract.]
The spear thrust met empty air. Qin Mo pivoted, slammed the haft upward, and drove an elbow into the attacker's jaw. Bone gave under the blow.
⸻
Snow hissed under sudden weight. The third operative dropped from a roof, landing behind him. Qin Mo felt the air shift — the strike was high, arcing toward the back of his neck.
Steel kissed steel. The Bellkeeper's chime-rod blocked the blade with a sound like shattering ice. "You're welcome," she said, and swept the attacker's legs from under him.
Qin Mo didn't waste the opening. One twist, one strike — and the alley was quiet again, save for the slow drift of flakes.
[Three down. Two still in play. Tracker bead activated on surviving unit.]
⸻
They stepped back into the market. The crowd's flow closed around them, erasing the scene as if it had never happened. But above the press of bodies, Qin Mo caught a glimpse — the fox-mask, watching from a balcony, motionless.
The envoy raised one gloved hand in a small, deliberate gesture. Not farewell. A promise.
Qin Mo let the weight of it settle. The game had changed; next time, there would be no half-measures.