Odd. A festival should be bright, celebratory… why black?
Her eyes lingered on it, curiosity pricking at her, but Shrin tugged at her hand. "Yan, come on. Let's eat."
She forced herself to ignore it.
I'm sure it's nothing.
The city was alive. Yan wandered through the shops Shrin guided her to, tasted the vibrant street food, and allowed herself the thrill of novelty. She scanned for a weapons shop, instinctively, but selling arms within Mort City was forbidden. Her gaze flitted to the children dancing, their laughter carrying over the crowd, when Shrin's quiet giggle pulled her attention.
"Yan, look at them," Shrin whispered, her hand subtly gesturing toward a group of noblemen. "They're… eyeing you."
Yan shook her head.
"What? You can't blame them. You really do look beautiful. They must think you're a noblewoman," Shrin added.
One of the men began walking toward them. Yan's instincts snapped into action. She grabbed Shrin's arm and pulled her along, weaving through the crowd with silent urgency.
That's when she noticed the men. Their faces were sharp, their expressions calculating. One handed another a black ribbon—the same one she'd glimpsed at the Mansion gate. Her eyes darted as the ribbons tied along the streets formed a dark trail leading straight toward Mort Mansion.
Her pulse spiked. Danger. Her instincts had never been wrong. A year in Mort City may have dulled some of her caution, but not this. Those men were heading straight to the Mansion.
Grand Ersi!
General Wang. He was the only general left guarding the City. If assassins had already infiltrated, there would be no time for the soldiers to intercept.
Yan's gaze hardened. She turned to Shrin, the weight of urgency pressing down on her.
"What's wrong?" Shrin asked, noticing the tension.
It had been a year since Yan had spoken a word. Her silence had been a shield.
Her lips parted. Every instinct screamed to remain quiet, but Grand Ersi's safety outweighed fear.
"Find General Wang," Yan said, her voice firm and commanding.
Shrin froze. Eyes wide, disbelief etched into every line of her face. "You… can talk!?"
Yan held her arms, standing taller, her gaze unflinching.
"Listen… go find General Wang. Tell him Grand Ersi is in danger."
"But… you? You… you talk."
"I'll explain later. Go—find him. Now!"
Shrin's eyes widened, her mind spinning as she turned in circles, unable to comprehend the sound of Yan's voice after a year of silence. Meanwhile, Yan's boots pounded the cobblestones, each step carrying her closer to Mort Mansion. Her pulse was a drumbeat of urgency, her senses sharp, every instinct screaming danger.
The Mansion loomed ahead, the black ribbons she had seen earlier now gone, as if they had vanished into the shadows themselves. She didn't pause. With a swift kick, she forced the gate open. Inside, chaos greeted her—two guards lay sprawled on the ground, blood pooling beneath them.
Without hesitation, Yan seized a fallen sword, her grip instinctive, practiced. A figure in black robes lunged at her from behind. Her body reacted before her mind could think—block, twist, parry. The clash of steel rang sharp in the silence of the Mansion's halls.
"I can't believe vacation's over," she murmured, voice low, almost amused, even as the assassin crumpled beneath her blade. Blood sprayed, a vivid streak across her clothes, seeping into the fabric.
"Grand Ersi will be so mad at this," she muttered, staring at the crimson on her hands. Her mind raced. Her suitcases, her weapons.
She barely had time to dwell before another threat appeared—an assassin chasing a terrified maid. Yan surged forward, sword slicing a perfect arc to intercept the attack. The maid stumbled back, wide-eyed.
"Where's Grand Ersi?" Yan demanded, her voice firm yet controlled.
"She's… in the temple, with Madam Han," the maid whispered, trembling. Shock shadowed her face—everyone knew Yan as the mute girl of Grand Ersi's chamber.
A new assassin tried to escape toward the temple. Yan didn't hesitate. She hurled her sword with precision, striking him in the nape. He crumpled silently, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Get out of here—go find help," she instructed the maid, her gaze already scanning the Mansion ahead.
The corridors stretched endlessly. The temple seemed miles away. Her ornate garments now felt like chains, silk brushing against her legs, slowing her down. She laughed bitterly, the sound almost lost in the chaos. Until today, she had always worn men's clothing—free, agile, ready for danger. And today of all days, danger had come.
She tugged at the jewelry on her head, letting her wavy brown hair cascade down her shoulders. Her eyes caught movement—several corpses of maids and servants littered the halls. A black-feathered arrow whistled past her ear. She dove behind a wall, heart hammering.
Another arrow flew—closer this time. Yan's instincts screamed. The assassin was above, on the roof.
Sword in hand, she sprinted, muscles coiling with every stride. An arrow shot again. She caught it mid-flight, eyes narrowing. With all her strength, she threw it back—bullseye. The assassin's body tumbled off the roof, crashing below.
Yan exhaled sharply, a mix of relief and exhilaration coursing through her. "Ha! I still got it," she whispered, a small grin breaking through the adrenaline.
The silk hem tangled her legs. She bent, slicing through the restrictive fabric. "I'm sorry, Grand Ersi," she muttered, breath ragged. "But this dress is making it hard for me to move."
The Mansion was alive with danger, every shadow a threat, yet Yan felt… unstoppable.
Meanwhile, Shrin arrived at the barracks, heart pounding, breath ragged.
"General Wang!" she screamed, voice cracking with urgency. "General…" She tried again, desperation threading through her tone, when a soldier's voice boomed across the room.
"General!"
General Wang's head snapped up, eyes narrowing as he assessed the two approaching him. "What?"
"General…"
"General…"
Their words collided, a chorus of panic and alarm.
"Enemies…"
"Enemies…"
The soldier pointed first, voice urgent and commanding.
"Speak first," General Wang ordered.
"General, enemies are spotted at the east gate. A hole was discovered in the wall. Our troops are chasing them down."
Before he could process the news, another soldier burst in, breathless, eyes wide.
"General! Lord Azron has arrived—intercepting the enemies at the east gate."
"All soldiers, with me to the east gate!" General Wang shouted, gripping his sword and dashing toward the stables.
"But—" Shrin called, sprinting after him. "General, wait!"
He yanked a horse from its post, preparing to ride, but Shrin caught his arm, holding firm against his furious glare.
"Enemies are at the Mansion! Grand Ersi and Madam Han—they're in danger!"
That was enough. Without another word, General Wang mounted, spurring the horse forward. He charged alone toward Mort Mansion, leaving the bulk of his troops to the east gate. Shadows lurked along the streets, and assassins sprang from hiding as he breached the Mansion gates.
….
Yan burst into the temple where Grand Ersi and Madam Han huddled with the maids. The sight stole her breath—five assassins circling them, weapons gleaming in the torchlight.
Fear flashed through her—but only for a heartbeat. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword.
"Yan…" Grand Ersi's voice was calm, poised, yet threaded with worry, her gaze steady even in the face of danger.
"Kill her!" one assassin bellowed, swinging a blade in a lethal arc toward Yan.
She blocked effortlessly, the clang of steel ringing in the temple. Yan's kick sent him staggering back; her sword followed, slicing clean through him. He crumpled, body split, and the other assassins froze. Even Grand Ersi and the maids recoiled, eyes wide with shock.
"Is that really Yan?" a maid whispered, voice trembling.
The assassins surged forward together, a storm of blades converging on her. The temple echoed with the metallic symphony of combat.
Yan moved like a shadow—light, precise, lethal. Her sword danced with deadly grace, faster than any trained hand, lighter than the weight of doubt.
Thankfully, she'd shed the extra weight from all those noblewomen's snacks, she thought grimly as she snapped the neck of the final assassin.
A breathless smile flickered across her blood-streaked face. Grand Ersi's eyes widened at the scene, disbelief and awe mingling. She stepped closer, gently touching Yan's shoulder.
"Are you hurt?" she asked, voice trembling.
Yan shook her head. "I'm… I'm fine, Grand Ersi."
Her calm words made Grand Ersi freeze. "You can talk?"
"Yes. I'm sorry. I…" Yan began, but the door slammed open. An injured maid stumbled inside, eyes wide with terror.
"Grand Ersi! Assassins… they're on their way!"
Yan's hands moved like lightning, grabbing a bow and arrows from a fallen attacker. "How many?"
The maid stuttered, panic rising. "I… I don't know… but they're many."
"Maybe we should lock the doors and wait for the soldiers?" Madam Han suggested, gripping Grand Ersi's arm.
"No," Yan said sharply, as she held Grand Ersi's hand, eyes scanning the frightened maids. "Stay here. Lock the doors and windows. Protect Grand Ersi and Madam Han."
With that, Yan stepped outside the temple, bow drawn, muscles coiled like springs. She leapt to the edge, arms steady as she inhaled, centering her focus. Her arrow flew—precise, fatal. Thirty meters away, an assassin fell with a sickening thud.
The rest came charging. Her arrows flew like deadly rain, each finding its mark, each assassin dropping in perfect execution. A few pressed close, but none breached the temple doors.
Yan's lips curved into a faint, dangerous smirk as her gaze swept over the fallen assassins sprawled around her. Their bodies lay twisted in silence, weapons still clutched in lifeless hands—men trained to kill, precise, disciplined… deadly.
But not deadly enough.
A slow breath left her, steady despite the chaos, despite the blood staining her skin and clothes. They were exceptional—she could tell from their movements, their coordination, the way they struck without hesitation. Any ordinary fighter would have been overwhelmed within seconds.
But Yan was no ordinary fighter. She was an assassin. Just like them.
The difference?
She is someone who perfected the art of killing.
Forty assassins attempted to storm the temple; Yan felled thirty-two, leaving eight who hesitated, watching each other, uncertain who would strike first.
Her bow empty, Yan dropped it, fingers tightening around the sword. She read every movement, every twitch, every shadow. Every instinct screamed danger—but a flicker of realization froze her heart.
A maid ran toward her, uniform familiar. But the face… her eyes widened. This was the same maid she had seen whispering to Fran, every week. The mole. The one who had let the assassins into Mort Mansion.
Yan's grip on her sword tightened, fury and betrayal coursing through her. She had found the traitor.
But before Yan could bring her sword down on the maid, a sharp pain erupted in her left side. She staggered back, fingers clutching the wound, tasting blood as her vision flickered. The maid tried to flee, but Yan's reflexes were razor-sharp—she slashed at the fleeing figure, the blade cutting deep. The maid collapsed, silent and still.
"Shit." Yan gritted her teeth, yanking the knife from her side. She ripped the sleeve of her garment, exposing her pale, slender arms, then wrapped the fabric tightly around her waist to staunch the bleeding.
From the shadows, the remaining assassins surged forward, eyes gleaming with malice. Yan's breath hitched, but her spirit didn't falter. She had survived worse wounds before—this one was nothing. Or so she hoped.
She darted forward, eyes scanning the corpses of fallen assassins, collecting eight arrows scattered across the ground—enough to finish the remaining attackers. Her blood stained her clothing, mapping the story of her battle as she moved. Lightheadedness crept in, a dizzying haze threatening her focus. She needed to finish this—fast—or she would collapse.
Why am I lightheaded? The wound isn't deep… she groaned, teeth gritted, legs trembling.
The assassins closed in, circling her with predatory precision. She knocked an arrow, drew the bow—but they attacked in unison. Her shot faltered, wasted. She couldn't afford failure; each arrow counted.
Dodging their strikes, Yan leapt, scaling the temple roof with fluid, cat-like speed. The assassins lunged, but none could reach her. From this vantage, she unleashed a deadly volley: two arrows at a time, four precise bursts, each finding flesh and bone. One by one, the assassins collapsed.
Below, forty assassins lay dead, scattered like rag dolls. Her chest heaved, but there was no time to breathe. Two arrows whistled toward her—swift, precise. Yan twisted, catching one mid-air, and immediately fired it back. The assassin on the adjacent roof jerked, blood erupting from his neck as he tumbled to his death.
Her legs trembled beneath her. The second arrow grazed her right leg, sharp pain blossoming along the muscle. She bit her lip to steady herself, glancing down at her left-side wound. Poison? Was that why her vision swam and her head spun?
I can't believe poison might be the end of me, she thought, smiling bitterly through the pain.
Balancing precariously, Yan squinted into the distance. Two riders approached, galloping like storm clouds against the moonlit city. Her vision blurred, but one figure almost brought tears to her eyes.
"Lord Azron."