The town appears at dusk. It lies in a shallow basin between low hills, surrounded by rice fields already cut for the season. Smoke rises from chimneys in thin, orderly lines. Lanterns glow softly along the main road, warm and inviting, like a promise made too easily. From a distance, it looks peaceful—too peaceful, as the old man warned. Zhen Yan watches from the edge of the fields.He stands knee-deep in stubble, the bamboo hat casting a shadow over his ghost mask. The wind carries sounds toward him: laughter, the clatter of bowls, the low murmur of conversation. Life goes on here, uninterrupted, unafraid.
That alone is suspicious.
A town untouched by fear does not remain so by chance.
He takes steps forward.
The road is packed earth, worn smooth by carts and years. As he enters the town, a few heads turn. His attire draws eyes—black robes, red blossoms, the mask. But no one challenges him. No one greets him either. They simply look away, as if pretending not to notice will keep misfortune from lingering.
Zhen Yan senses it now, faint but unmistakable.
Order.
Not the natural order of people living their lives, but something imposed. A tension beneath routine, like a blade hidden beneath silk. He passes an inn, a butcher's stall, a small shrine at the crossroads. Incense burns there, but the offering bowls are too full, too fresh, as if replenished daily out of obligation rather than faith.
He then stops at a tea house.
It is modest, wooden, its sign slightly crooked. Inside, several patrons sit quietly. Conversation dies the moment he steps through the door. The innkeeper—a man in his forties with careful eyes—forces a smile.
"Traveler," he says, "will you have tea?"
"Yes."
Zhen Yan sits near the wall, back straight, senses open. He sets his sword against the bench beside him, visible but untouched.
The tea arrives quickly, a little too quickly.
"Busy night," Zhen Yan says casually.
The innkeeper stiffens. "Every night is the same."
A woman at a nearby table grips her cup a little too tightly. Zhen Yan lifts the tea, inhales the steam, then sets it down without drinking. "How long," he asks, "has this town been peaceful?"
The innkeeper hesitates. "Always," he says finally.
Zhen Yan's gaze sharpens.
"There are no bandits," the man continues quickly. "No disputes. No… trouble."
"No deaths?" Zhen Yan asks.
Silence.
A man at the far table stands abruptly and leaves, knocking his stool over in his haste. Zhen Yan looks back at the innkeeper. "Who keeps the peace?"
The innkeeper's mouth opens, then closes. Before he can answer, footsteps approach from outside—measured, confident.
Three men enter. They wear simple robes, but they move like trained blades. At their belts hang short swords, plain but well-maintained. On their sleeves, embroidered subtly in black thread, is a familiar symbol.
A blossom. Incomplete. The patrons shrink back.
The lead man smiles politely. "Traveler," he says, "our town welcomes guests. But masks make people uneasy."
Zhen Yan meets his gaze.
"So do lies." The smile falters.
"You ask questions," the man says. "Questions disturb harmony."
Zhen Yan stands. "Harmony built on fear," he says, "rots from the roots."
The air tightens.
One of the men's hands drifts toward his weapon. "Outside," the leader says calmly. "We should speak privately."
Zhen Yan inclines his head.
They step into the street. Lantern light pools around them. Doors close quietly. Windows darken. The town holds its breath.
"You're hunting petals," the leader says softly. "You're far from home."
"I have no home," Zhen Yan replies.
"Then turn back," the man urges. "Some gardens cannot be burned without burning yourself."
Zhen Yan's voice is steady. "Who commands you?"
The leader exhales. "You won't reach them," he says. "You'll die here, nameless."
Zhen Yan's hand moves.
The flying daggers bloom into the air like red-tipped shadows. One man falls without a sound. The second staggers, weapon slipping from his grasp.
The leader steps back, eyes wide now. "You're a monster," he whispers.
Zhen Yan closes the distance.
"I was made," he says, "by monsters." When it ends, the street is silent again.
Zhen Yan kneels, retrieving a petal from the leader's sleeve. This one is heavier, its carving more complete.
A higher rank.
He then rises.
The innkeeper stands frozen in the doorway, face pale.
"It's over," Zhen Yan says.
The man laughs weakly. "No… no, it's not. They'll come again."
Zhen Yan looks at the town—its lanterns, its bowed heads, its fragile peace. "Not for you," he says, turning and walking away in calm steps. Behind him, the shrine's incense gutter and go out. Far beyond the town, unseen hands begin to move. And in the hidden garden, someone finally notices that petals are falling too quickly.
Zhen Yan does not stop walking until the town disappears behind the hills. Night deepens. The lantern glow fades, replaced by moonlight filtering weakly through drifting clouds. The road curves toward a low ravine where reeds grow thick and the earth smells damp and old. Crickets begin their song, unaware that the balance of the night has shifted.
Zhen Yan slows not because of sound, but because of pressure.
It settles around him like an unseen net—subtle, suffocating, deliberate. The air feels heavier, as if the land itself has been instructed to hold him in place.
He exhales. "So," he says quietly, "you come yourself."
Applause answers him. It is unhurried. Measured. Each clap spaced evenly, as though counted.
A figure steps onto the road ahead. The man wears white. Not the white of mourning, but the white of untouched silk. His robes are layered and immaculate, their hems embroidered not with blossoms, but with branching lines that resemble roots spreading through soil. His hair is tied neatly, his face calm, handsome, unmarked by hardship. At his waist hangs no sword, instead, a thin chain wraps around his wrist, disappearing into his sleeve.
"You disappoint me," the man says pleasantly. "I expected the Windshadow to be taller."
Zhen Yan remains still. "You're not a petal," he says.
The man smiles. "Petals fall while I remain."
"You command them."
"I guide them," the man corrects gently. "Like a gardener."
Zhen Yan's fingers twitch. "State your name."
The man inclines his head. "You may call me Bai He. Third Root of the Outer Blossom."
The title carries weight. Zhen Yan feels it now—cultivation deeper than the men before, refined, disciplined. Not overwhelming, but precise. Controlled. Like a blade kept sheathed not out of weakness, but patience.
"You slaughtered two scouting groups and uprooted a stabilizing node," Bai He continues calmly. "Do you know how long it took to make that town compliant?"
Zhen Yan's voice is flat. "They lived in fear."
"They lived," Bai He replies. "That is more than most."
A faint breeze passes. Reeds sway. Bai He's gaze sharpens. "You kill our people without hesitation. Yet you spared the town."
"They weren't my target."
"Interesting," Bai He murmurs. "You claim mercilessness, yet you choose."
Zhen Yan does not answer.
Bai He lifts his wrist slightly. The chain slips free. It is made of interlocking silver links, thin as threads, each etched with faint runes. It moves as if alive, coiling slowly around his arm. "You hunt upward," Bai He says. "But do you understand what lies above?"
"I don't need to," Zhen Yan replies. "I'll carve my way there."
Bai He sighs, almost regretful. "You could have been useful," he says. "A blade pointed outward instead of inward."
The chain moves. Not fast, but just enough.
Zhen Yan reacts instantly. A dagger flashes from his sleeve, striking toward Bai He's chest.
The chain intercepts it midair. Metal rings softly.
Zhen Yan advances. His sword draws a clean arc, cutting through moonlight. Bai He steps aside with minimal movement, the chain flowing like liquid, deflecting, redirecting, never meeting force with force. Their clash is brief and...measured. Each exchange is like a test. This Zhen Yan feels it—Bai He is not trying to kill him, but instead is measuring him.
"You don't fear death," Bai He observes between movements, "That makes you dangerous. But also predictable."
Zhen Yan's blade presses forward. "Then predict this!" He releases the sword. It falls. Bai He's eyes flicker—just for an instant. The flying daggers erupt from Zhen Yan's sleeves, not toward Bai He, but outward—into the reeds, into the shadows.
Cries answer. Hidden figures fall back, exposed. Bai He's calm finally cracks. "You were baiting us."
"I always am," Zhen Yan says.
He catches his falling sword and turns—not toward Bai He, but toward the hidden attackers.
Steel flashes. When the night settles, the reeds are still. Only Bai He remains standing. For the first time, his expression is no longer amused.
"You see?" Zhen Yan says quietly. "Your roots bleed."
Bai He exhales slowly.
"So they do." He lifts his hand. The chain tightens, then loosens. "We will meet again," Bai He says. "Not as hunter and hunted. But as inevitability."
Zhen Yan steps forward, eyes narrowing. "You won't leave here today."
Bai He smiles faintly. "Not tonight," he says.
The ground shifts and a dense fog surges upward from the ravine, swallowing the road, the reeds, the moonlight. When it clears, Bai He is gone. Zhen Yan stands alone. Blood darkens the earth around him. He sheathes his sword.
In the distance, a bell tolls—once.
Then again. A signal.
Zhen Yan looks toward the horizon. "They're afraid now," he murmurs. And somewhere far away, within a hidden hall of silk and stone, a higher authority finally speaks Zhen Yan's name aloud.