The city sleeps uneasily, with lanterns glowing faintly in the night, but their light almost never reaches the alleys where shadows gather, nor the rooftops that wind like jagged ribbons above tiled houses. From the air, Lanyin seems calm, orderly and safe—but Zhen Yan knows better. The great family has always hidden its claws behind silk, and now they reach outward, desperate to stop the storm that carries his name.
He moves silently along the rooftops, boots light against worn tiles. The bamboo hat low, ghost mask hiding the faint scar of memory that never fades, he no longer is simply a shadow: he is the storm's edge. The wind lifts long strands of his hair, carrying them like banners behind him. Red blossoms trace the hems of his robes, soft as falling petals but sharp as a blade in their movement. Below, Inner Court enforcers fan out, seeking, calculating, but they cannot see him. Their eyes trace the streets, but Zhen Yan is already above them, watching, planning, waiting.
A single movement catches his attention: Qiu Feng, standing atop a distant pagoda, staff in hand, calm as ever.
"You've learned to walk the wind," Qiu Feng calls softly, voice carried by the breeze. "But even the wind bends to the garden's order."
Zhen Yan tilts his head. "Then let the garden crumble."
From the shadows below, a dozen enforcers climb, taking shortcuts through alleys and rooftops. They move as one, disciplined, trained to corner and suppress. But Zhen Yan's senses are sharper, honed by years of hunting, by blood that will never dry from memory. Each leap, each landing is precise. Each dagger spun from his sleeves finds a gap, knocks a weapon aside, leaves a mark without killing where unnecessary.
He lands on a narrow ledge, sword in hand, and spies them moving below: figures in perfect formation, yet one hesitation, one misstep, and they will falter.
Then a shout rises.
A child runs into the street—a courier, perhaps, or someone sent to lure him. The enforcers hesitate. Zhen Yan does not. He calculates. The child is safe—his path untouched. The threat is a test.
He spins, dagger flying. One enforcer staggers, caught by the edge of steel. Another retreats instinctively. Within moments, the rooftops are littered with those who have underestimated him.
Qiu Feng watches silently, staff resting on his shoulder. "You fight like a shadow and a storm combined," he says. "But shadows are fragile. Storms die when the roots are unbroken."
Zhen Yan leaps toward a higher roof, landing silently. The rooftops ahead reveal the first glimpse of the Inner Garden hierarchy: guards in elaborate silks, masked figures moving with deliberate grace, and at the center, a tower where lantern light glows brighter than all others. Inside, he senses it: the heart of the family's authority.
He exhales beneath the mask. The petals in his mind fall faster now, heavier with each step toward that tower. Names, faces, lives once taken, flash before him. The Zhen Family. Adoptive faces lost to night and fire. Every step forward is measured, deliberate, merciless.
From above, Qiu Feng speaks again, softer this time: "The windshadow cannot stop the roots from noticing… but it may yet bend them. Be wary of mercy. It is not weakness—but it is a choice. And choices weigh heavier than steel."
Zhen Yan does not answer. He only moves.
By dawn, he is at the edge of the Inner Garden proper: walls high, carved with petals that are more than decoration. They are marks of authority, signals of the hierarchy, warnings that the further he goes, the more dangerous each breath becomes.
A single enforcer steps forward, taller than the others, cloaked in embroidered silk so dark it absorbs light. Sword gleams faintly in his hand. His eyes are hidden beneath a mask painted with twisting vines and blossoms.
"You are not welcome," he says. "Leave, or all who walk with you fall."
Zhen Yan tilts his head, sword half-drawn. "I walk for no one but the fallen. And I do not fall."
The enforcer laughs softly. "Then step inside the garden. Let us see if mercy shields you—or buries you."
And with that, the first true battle within the heart of the great family begins.
The Inner Garden sprawls before Zhen Yan like a living tapestry, perfectly cultivated yet heavy with menace. Paved walkways wind between stone lanterns, their flickering light casting elongated shadows that twist and sway. Cherry blossoms bloom unnaturally early, petals catching on the wind, drifting like silent warnings. The scent of incense and earth is sharp, mingled with the faint tang of blood—old and new.
Zhen Yan steps onto the central plaza. Each footfall is careful yet deliberate, measured against the soft click of his boots on stone. His bamboo hat sits low, ghost mask concealing the fire in his eyes. Red blossoms along his hem sway as though marking his passage, tiny flames against the muted moonlight.
Ahead, the enforcer from the gate steps forward again, his twin blades gleaming faintly beneath the lantern light. He moves with the poise of someone born to battle, yet his stance is restrained, controlled. Around him, figures in embroidered silk—Inner Court guards—fan outward, forming a living cage. Every breath is calculated. Every step is deliberate.
"You move like a shadow, Windshadow," the enforcer says softly, voice carrying without strain. "But even shadows can be shattered."
Zhen Yan tilts his head, dagger spinning lightly in his hand. "Then shatter me," he replies. "And see if darkness follows."
Steel flashes.
The battle begins not with sound, but with motion—a blur of movement so swift that it seems the air itself is bending around them. Zhen Yan spins his daggers, each blade tracing arcs that intersect the enemy's movements, deflecting strikes meant to kill. His sword flashes in tandem, slicing through openings with surgical precision.
The Inner Court moves as one, disciplined and methodical, yet Zhen Yan anticipates, reacts, and adapts. He uses the environment—the curve of a stone lantern, the edge of a railing, even the petals drifting down from the trees—to create space, to manipulate their formation, to turn their coordination against them.
One guard lunges from the side; dagger spins, catching the blade and knocking it aside. Another attacks from behind; sword swings in a controlled arc, slicing the air so close to his opponent that the wind itself knocks the man off balance. Within moments, two guards lie prone, incapacitated but unharmed.
A subtle smile curves beneath Zhen Yan's mask. Each strike, each movement, is a message: the Windshadow respects no hierarchy except the one carved by his own hands.
From the far end of the plaza, a figure watches quietly—Qiu Feng, staff resting lightly on the ground, expression calm yet unreadable. "You move with skill," he murmurs. "But skill alone does not unravel the threads above."
Zhen Yan glances at him briefly. "Then let me find the thread I need."
The enforcer presses forward, aggressive now, striking with a flurry meant to overwhelm. Zhen Yan counters, weaving through the assault, each dodge precise, each strike measured. Daggers spin outward, catching weapons, disrupting formations. His sword moves like water, sharp yet fluid, cutting clean lines that force the enforcers to retreat and regroup.
He notices the patterns now—subtle shifts in their stance, repeated motions that betray rank and training. One guard hesitates, just a fraction too long, revealing the first clue: the architect of the Zhen Family's annihilation is linked to the Inner Court itself, someone of high authority, someone who manipulates from behind layers of obedience and discipline.
The realization sends a chill through him. The Zhen Family was destroyed not by chance, nor by a rival petty sect—but by careful design, orchestrated by hands that now command this Inner Garden.
The enforcer sees the shift in Zhen Yan's gaze. "You understand," he says softly. "You are dangerous not only because of your skill, but because of what you know."
Zhen Yan steps forward, daggers spinning outward like petals in a violent wind. One man drops, disarmed, kneeling, face pale. Another staggers, blocked by the spinning blade that hums faintly in the night air.
"Speak," Zhen Yan demands, voice low, dangerous. "Who gave the order? Who orchestrated the night my family fell?"
The enforcer hesitates, glancing toward the towering main hall of the garden. "You… you cannot strike them. You will fail. The family above… their reach is beyond petals, beyond shadows. You will die before the roots break."
Zhen Yan's grip tightens on the sword. "Then I will be the storm that bends the roots anyway."
Qiu Feng steps forward now, staff in hand. "Resolve without recklessness," he says quietly. "Mercy without hesitation. That is your choice. But beware: every step closer to the truth will demand more than your skill—it will demand your soul."
Zhen Yan does not respond. He merely sheaths his sword, spins a dagger in his hand, and moves toward the hall. Every enforcer left standing moves to intercept him—but none are the final obstacle.
He senses it now, deep in the shadows of the Inner Garden: the true architect of the Zhen Family's destruction waits. Watching. Smiling. Confident that even the Windshadow cannot reach them.
And yet, Zhen Yan walks forward, petals falling heavier now, red blossoms on his robes vivid in the lantern glow. The storm is coming, but he will not wait for it to strike first.