The spring wind drifted through Willow Bridge Town, carrying with it the faint fragrance of plum blossoms and the heavier smell of cheap wine. Lanterns swayed above the street, their glow spilling over dice tables and noisy quarrels.
Inside the Green Bamboo Teahouse, a man in a plain scholar's robe sat by the window, sipping from a porcelain cup. His sword leaned forgotten against the wall, and his posture suggested indolence, but his sleeve moved with a grace too natural to be accidental.
His name was Yun Liang. The townsfolk knew him as a drifter, a man of poetry and wine who sometimes composed verses for coin, sometimes vanished for weeks without explanation. His eyes, calm as still water, seemed to take in everything while revealing nothing.
The door burst open with drunken laughter. A knot of Azure Cloud Sect disciples swaggered in, blue sashes marking their allegiance. Their leader, a broad-faced man with a saber at his waist, spotted Yun Liang and sneered.
"Ho! Isn't that the Yun bastard?" His voice carried through the teahouse. "A traitor's son dares to sit here as though he belongs among decent folk?"
Chairs scraped. The room fell quiet. Everyone knew the tale: years ago, the Yun family had been condemned as heretics and slaughtered. The only survivor was this man.
The broad-faced swordsman slammed a palm on Yun Liang's table, making the teacups rattle. "Tell me, dog, do you write your poetry for the ghosts of your kin?"
Yun Liang looked into his cup. The tea leaves swirled like shadows at the bottom. He lifted it, sipped lightly, and set it down without spilling a drop.
"Poetry is for the living," he said softly. "The dead are fortunate—they no longer have to listen to such vulgar noise."
Laughter rippled, sharp with cruelty. The swordsman's smile wavered. Yun Liang's tone remained mild.
"But forgive me. A disciple of Azure Cloud must surely be a master of refined arts. Perhaps you would honor us with a verse—one that does not stumble like your saber hand?"
The hall erupted. The swordsman's face reddened. He ripped his blade free, fury bursting forth. But before the steel descended, two chopsticks flicked from Yun Liang's sleeve, striking his wrist with a sharp crack. The saber clattered to the floor.
Gasps swept the teahouse. No one had seen him move. Yun Liang smiled, lifted his cup, and sipped. "Forgive me. My hand slipped."
The broad-faced swordsman trembled with humiliation. His companions reached for their blades but froze under Yun Liang's steady gaze. At last, the man spat on the floor and stormed out.
The noise of the teahouse resumed in cautious tones. Yun Liang paid with a silver tael he could ill afford, bowed to the keeper, and stepped into the moonlit street.
Later, at the mouth of an alley, the broad-faced disciple staggered out alone, clutching his throat. His lips had turned the color of bruised violets. He collapsed silently.
A shadow moved past without a glance. Yun Liang adjusted his sleeve where a tiny porcelain vial nestled unseen.
At the willow trees beyond town, he paused, looking out across the dark river. His face, serene in the lantern-light of the teahouse, was now cold and still.
"Father. Mother." His voice was scarcely louder than the wind. "Tonight was but a leaf upon the stream. One day, the whole river will run red."
The branches stirred in answer, whispering like ghosts. Yun Liang smiled faintly, an elegant curve of the lips, and disappeared into the night.