Qingshui's gaze was dark, every muscle taut.
"Shuidui!"
The shadow grinned without warmth, eyes still frozen:
"Long time no see, Shuili. Looks like you've been playing house quite happily."
"Worried you wouldn't finish the job, the Water Envoy thoughtfully sent me to help. You can step aside."
Cold wind churned; both their auras leaked into the night at once.
From Qingshui, that damp, chilling mist unique to the Water Ward—like night vapor spreading soundless. From Shuidui, damp welled up through the ground, freezing into frost that crackled white.
The air seemed to congeal. The little courtyard brimmed with killing intent, as if water had filled it to overflowing.
Neither moved first.
They were comrades, of the same lineage, under the same Envoy—no one knew the other's style better.
Only cold calculation filled their eyes.
Shuidui spoke first, slow, clear:
"What's wrong? Too much time playing house—can't pull yourself free? Shuili, you really mean to fight me?"
Qingshui's knives trembled; her eyes narrowed. Her voice came cold:
"Why?"
Shuidui cocked a brow, feigning not to understand.
The words hissed through her clenched teeth:
"Why kill them?"
His face didn't shift. Slowly he gripped his hilt, drew the curved blade. In Bihua's daze, it looked like two pale moons.
"Orders are orders."
"Who they are—that's none of my concern."
He rose, cloak snapping in the wind, blade raised high on the wall—its silver crescent pointing down at Bihua.
"You know the rules. No feelings. No questions. Mission is mission."
Qingshui's knuckles went white; the tip of her knife sagged, a cold shimmer flickering in her eyes.
The wind howled; snow swept through, heavy with killing intent. One stood above, the other below—like predator and dust.
The deadlock shattered with a voice—
"Mom?"
The side-room door creaked; Layne rubbed his eyes, hair tousled, peered out, bleary.
"Mom, what are you—"
The words cut off. His gaze had fallen on the figure on the wall.
Shuidui's eyes went flat as iron, locking on prey. His blade quivered once—then he was gone.
An instant later, snow swirled as he plunged straight for Layne.
"Layne, back!!"
Qingshui shot forward, twin blades crossed. Steel rang as she caught the killing strike.
The crash cracked the doorway.
Qi clashed, snow and dust whirled; the chill ripped Layne into full wakefulness.
Snarling, Qingshui shoved back, then screamed—
"Bihua! Take him—run!"
The surge had knocked Bihua from her bed; white-faced, she saw three blades clash and flare before her eyes. At that cry, she snapped awake, lunged, seized her son's hand.
Layne froze, pale as paper. "Mom… Auntie Qingshui…"
"Run!!"
Once more Qingshui's blades rang against Shuidui's curve, sparks shrieking. The shock split her palms; blood seeped through her grip.
"Get the hell out!!"
Bihua bit down hard, yanked her son, bolted for her room's window. Their footfalls slapped frantic against the floorboards as snow blew through.
"Auntie!!" Layne sobbed, twisting back.
"Don't look back!!" Qingshui's roar tore out, voice cracked and bloodied.
Shuidui's eyes were cold iron. He slid one step, then stamped forward—
Water Ward Technique · Ripple Shock.
Qingshui spat blood, stomped in reply—the same shockwave rippling from her feet.
They crashed together in the house. Shuidui stood steady; Qingshui staggered back, slammed the wall, coughing blood.
Snow blasted through, whirling blood and dust.
Bihua and Layne reeled under the aftershock—but only because Shuidui's strike had been met head-on and its force diverted. Otherwise they would have been crushed.
He moved to pursue. But a cold gleam forced him to halt—Qingshui, dragging herself upright, stepping out slow.
"Shuili, you'd truly turn on us? Think. They're targets already. How long can you shield them?"
She stood in the yard, left arm hanging, blood dripping in red blossoms into the snow.
Her eyes caught the crooked "Fu" on her door—written like "pig."
She remembered the couplet she'd scrawled.
"Broth rich as fire drives back the snow; year after year, we guard this door together."
A broken smile, teeth stained with blood. She lifted her good hand, raised her blade at him.
Neighbors were awake now; lights flickered in the distance.
None dared come out.
Only steel's clash and ragged grunts filled the wind.
Qingshui staggered, slashing, retreating—her sleeve soaked, blood stiffening in the gale.
Shuidui pressed in, aura bound tight on his curved blade, carving through night like water through ice.
She ground her jaw, eyes flicking again and again to the two fleeing shadows.
Her voice broke, almost vomited out with blood:
"Run faster—!!"
Snow thickened.
The road beyond town was a pale sheet, moonlight baring only jagged trails of blood.
Qingshui clutched her shoulder, blood streaming between her fingers, dripping blossoms red on white.
Her breath rasped, chest heaving; her exhale billowed white like smoke.
"No… his skill, his aura—stronger than mine…"
Shuidui strode closer, flicking blood from his blade. His face was stone.
Each step fell soundless, ripples blooming beneath his boots. He had never ceased the flow of water aura, a tide denser than hers.
The crescent blade rose, cold light gleaming.
"This ends here, Shuili."
His voice was flat as dead water.
She clenched teeth, mouth full of blood, blade heavy as stone in her hands.
"One knife already gone…"
Wind whipped her hair; her eyes burned. She could not take a step back. Not with Bihua and Layne still within reach.
Their footprints were already fading in the storm.
Her breath rattled, voice fractured like shattered porcelain:
"If you want them… you'll cut me first!"
His gaze did not change. A cold snort. His blade surged down, aura tearing snow and wind apart.
The clash thundered; sparks burst.
Qingshui braced, tried to redirect—but his qi ripped into her arm, splitting her wound, blood surging anew.
She staggered, knees buckled, dropped to one. Both arms hung limp, blood pooling in the snow.
Shuidui advanced. His boots cracked the snow. His curved blade neared her throat.
In his eyes: only ice, only death.
Qingshui locked her jaw, voice forced from her throat:
"Do it! Kill me!"
The gale swallowed her cry, leaving only steel and blood under the snow night.
And then—when his blade was about to fall—
"Enough."
A voice. Strange, calm. Flat as still water—but pressing down on the killing intent like a hand.
Both snapped their heads.
Shuidui recoiled, wary.
Snow stretched long shadows under the moon.
There—stood a figure.
He walked unhurried, each crunch of snow measured. His cloak snapped in the storm, but he seemed not to feel it. His eyes passed over them, cool, polite.
His voice was low, carrying a trace of civility:
"Your quarrel… allow me to intervene."