The moon rose over the fields like a pale coin, casting silver across the dirt road where two groups of disciples met by chance—or so they thought.
On one side, Azure Cloud Sect swords glittered, their robes damp with mist. On the other, Iron Saber Alliance brutes gripped their heavy blades, the steel blackened from years of blood.
The silence between them was thick as smoke. Both groups carried the same rumor: the other had plotted poison, the other had prepared an ambush, the other meant to strike tonight.
From a hill above, hidden among the pines, Yun Liang watched, his fan folded in his hand. His eyes reflected the moonlight, calm and patient.
A single shout broke the stillness.
"Azure dogs!" an Iron Saber disciple roared, pointing his blade. "Admit your cowardice, or die where you stand!"
"Heretic curs!" the Azure Cloud leader retorted. "Your poisons shame the jianghu! Tonight, we cleanse your filth!"
The first blade flashed. Steel rang against steel. Shouts tore the night as the two sects collided in fury.
Yun Liang closed his fan, tapping it lightly against his palm. He had arranged the meeting through whispers carried by beggars, rumors planted in taverns, and a letter forged with an Azure Cloud seal. Now, swords clashed exactly as he had planned.
The battle raged below. Iron Saber strength met Azure Cloud technique; blood stained the grass, cries echoed into the hills. By the time the moon climbed high, seven lay dead and more wounded, their sect banners torn and trampled.
Finally, the survivors staggered apart, each side swearing vengeance tenfold.
From his hilltop, Yun Liang composed a verse with his finger against the pine bark:
"Whispers drift like autumn leaves,Blades fall like winter snow.Men kill not from truth,But from the lies they crave."
He whispered it once, as though offering the night a prayer, then turned away, robes whispering against the grass.
At the road below, Old Crane awaited him, leaning on his staff. "The jianghu already rumbles, Gentleman Yun. Soon, all will ask who first spilled blood."
Yun Liang's smile was faint, his voice soft. "When men die of thirst, they do not ask who drained the river first. They only drink the last drop."
Old Crane chuckled, toothless and pleased. "You play a long game. But tell me, Scholar—what of the rumor of the Black Lotus Witch? It spreads even faster than your feud."
For a moment, Yun Liang's calm faltered. His hand lingered on his fan, pressing it closed.
"If she is who I think she is," he murmured, "then she belongs to a part of the game I cannot yet name."
The wind stirred the pines. The river below carried blood toward the sea.
And the jianghu, restless, waited for the storm yet to come.