Three days after the moonlit clash, the Twin Pines Hall once again filled with disciples of both Azure Cloud and Iron Saber. Bandaged wounds and fresh scars glistened under lantern light; the air was thick with anger.
Both sect leaders glared across the hall, each demanding blood for the seven dead.
Into this storm walked Yun Liang, his robe immaculate, a scroll tucked under one arm and his folding fan in the other. He bowed to both sides, his tone calm as spring water.
"Gentlemen, please. A blade once drawn cannot be unsheathed again. Let us not turn grief into a river that drowns us all."
The hall muttered, suspicion flickering—yet his serene voice carried weight. He placed the scroll upon the table, unfurling a map of the border towns.
"The jianghu is wide," he continued. "Yet your quarrels choke it like weeds. Trade falters, merchants curse your names, beggars go hungry. The court itself sharpens knives in secret. If Azure Cloud and Iron Saber cannot find restraint, you will both be cut down—not by each other, but by shadows beyond these walls."
The elders exchanged wary glances. Yun Liang's courtesy disarmed them, his logic unassailable.
At last, the Iron Saber leader slammed his fist, snarling, "Fine! We will send envoys to Azure Cloud for talks. But if their tongues drip poison as their cups did, we march with fire and steel."
The Azure Cloud elder smirked coldly. "So be it. We will hear your envoys. Yet if your sabers thirst again, do not expect mercy."
Agreement made, both sides dispersed in uneasy silence.
Yun Liang remained, folding his fan slowly. When the last robe swept out of the hall, Old Crane appeared from the shadows.
"Masterful," the beggar croaked, bowing mockingly. "They call you mediator now. Even enemies trust your silver tongue. But tell me, whose envoy will fall first? Azure or Iron?"
Yun Liang's smile curved, elegant and cruel. "Both. A rumor here, a whisper there—their peace will rot before it blooms."
He rose, walking toward the courtyard where the moon hung like a pale coin above the pines.
"But let them believe in peace a little while. A mask must be worn long enough to be mistaken for the face beneath."
As he stepped into the night, another beggar hurried up, breathless.
"Gentleman Yun! A new tale spreads through the inns. The Black Lotus Witch was seen crossing the southern marshes. They say she searches for someone… a son thought long dead."
Yun Liang paused. For a moment, the mask of calm slipped. The night wind pressed against him, colder than any blade.
His fingers tightened on his fan until the wood creaked.
"Mother," he whispered into the dark. "What face do you wear now—witch, healer, or ghost?"
No answer came, save the distant cry of a night heron across the river.