The spring rains came suddenly, drumming against the roofs of Willow Bridge Town, washing dust from the cobblestones into the swollen river. Lanterns reflected as fractured gold upon the water.
Yun Liang walked beneath his oiled-paper umbrella, the picture of a refined scholar out for a midnight stroll. His steps were unhurried, his robe unmarked by mud, though the streets were a mire.
He paused at the willow grove by the riverbank, where the branches swayed in the wind like mourners' sleeves. Here, his family shrine had once stood, reduced now to ruins.
A voice called from the shadows. "Gentleman Yun."
Figures stepped from the darkness. Five men in Azure Cloud Sect robes surrounded him, rain gleaming on their drawn blades. Their leader, a hawk-nosed man with sharp eyes, sneered.
"You humiliate our disciples, spread whispers among beggars, and mock our name in taverns. Did you think Azure Cloud Sect would not notice?"
Yun Liang smiled faintly, lowering his umbrella. Rain pattered onto his hair, tracing his calm features.
"I thought," he said, "that Azure Cloud Sect would be too busy reciting poetry to remember the meaning of their blades."
Steel flashed. The first disciple lunged. Yun Liang stepped aside as if avoiding a puddle, his sword sliding free in a motion so graceful it seemed unintentional. A flicker of silver—and the disciple fell, clutching a cut across his throat, blood mixing with rain.
The others cried out and attacked together. Yun Liang moved like shadow through the storm, each motion precise, his blade finding wrists, throats, arteries. He did not roar, did not boast. He killed as a calligrapher writes—quietly, elegantly, with each stroke deliberate.
When silence returned, the rain had nearly drowned the world. Four bodies lay broken at his feet. The hawk-nosed leader staggered back, blood streaming from his arm, terror twisting his face.
"You… you are no wandering gentleman… You are a demon!"
Yun Liang sheathed his sword. His expression remained serene. "A demon? No. A son. One who learned long ago that righteousness is a mask, and masks can be torn."
The hawk-nosed man fled into the rain, stumbling blindly. Yun Liang did not pursue. One survivor was enough—fear travels faster than corpses.
He stood alone in the willow grove, rain soaking his robe, blood pooling at his feet. Raising his umbrella once more, he walked back toward the town, his pace unhurried.
By dawn, whispers had already begun: that in the storm, Azure Cloud disciples had met a hidden blade by the river, cut down by an unseen hand. Some swore a ghost had risen from the Yun family shrine. Others whispered of a gentleman with a smile and a sword too swift to see.
Yun Liang sat once more in the Green Bamboo Teahouse that morning, sipping hot tea as though nothing had changed. Patrons stole glances, whispering behind their sleeves. He lifted his cup with a smile, elegant as ever.
Inside, his thoughts burned like hidden fire.
This is only the beginning.