The valley narrows, cliffs rising sharply on either side, forcing the path into a single, winding road. Zhen Yan moves like a shadow along the ridge, bamboo hat tilted, ghost mask concealing the cold intensity in his gaze. His companions flank him—swordsman to the left, spearwoman to the right, monk at the rear—each step measured, each movement synchronized. They have walked far, and now the forest thins, replaced by the outskirts of a fortified estate—the first stronghold tied to his true bloodline.
Even from a distance, the banners are unmistakable: black with crimson blossoms embroidered along the hem, sigils that echo the ones stitched onto Zhen Yan's own robes. Symbols of power. Symbols of cruelty. Symbols of the family that used him as a tool before he knew himself.
The gates open before they reach them. No soldiers rush out. No cries of challenges. Instead, a single figure stands beneath the archway, arms folded, robe immaculate, mask half covering the face. A faint smile rests on lips that have known both command and manipulation.
"You walk far, Zhen Yan..." the figure says, "...and yet, you arrive exactly where I hoped."
Zhen Yan stops, sword sheathed, eyes hidden. "I am here because it is time you remember what blood truly costs," he says.
The figure inclines slightly. "And yet you still wear the mask. You have learned caution well."
Behind the figure, shadows stir—guards, advisors, lieutenants, all waiting, watching. But Zhen Yan does not flinch. He senses the subtle hierarchy, the unspoken fear, the lines of loyalty that have been stretched thin over decades of indulgence and cruelty.
"Why reveal yourself?" he asks finally, voice low but piercing. "Why orchestrate the murder of the Zhen Family and leave me alive?"
The figure tilts the head, as if amused by the question. "Because the child who survives becomes a weapon. And your adoptive family… well, they were… entertaining. Their deaths were necessary lessons, for you and for others."
A cold laugh escapes Zhen Yan, muffled beneath the ghost mask. "Entertaining," he repeats. "You slaughter families for amusement, and now call it a lesson?"
"Yes," the figure says simply. "And you, walking beneath the banner of vengeance, confirm its efficacy. Every step you take proves the strength of bloodline—and the weakness of morality."
Zhen Yan grips his sword. Every muscle coiled, every nerve alive. His companions mirror him, weapons poised, shadows sharp against the dimming sun. The first wave of enforcers strikes—masked, uniformed, disciplined, moving to encircle. Zhen Yan's daggers spin, slicing reins, tripping armor, forcing them into chaos. His sword arcs cleanly, strikes precise, every motion a teaching of consequence, of survival, of fury restrained just enough to unbalance without destruction.
The battle unfolds like a dance. Steel flashes, shields clash, and through it all, Zhen Yan moves with a predator's grace, testing, measuring, observing. He does not kill recklessly—yet every strike carries the promise of death should restraint fail. After the skirmish, the figure under the archway steps forward again. Calm. Unshaken. "You survive again," the voice notes. "It seems my hopes for you as a weapon were correct."
Zhen Yan raises his sword slightly, tilting his head. "A weapon I choose to wield myself," he says. "Not one you command. Not one you amuse yourself with."
The figure smiles, faint and cold. "Very well. But know this, Windshadow… the circle has many layers. This is only the first. And the deeper you go, the more… complicated the web becomes."
Zhen Yan glances at the companions. Each understands—their journey has only begun. Allies will be tested. Loyalties strained. Every revelation will be a blade turned inward. "And that," Zhen Yan says softly, "is why I never stop walking."
The wind stirs through the estate, carrying the echoes of hidden corridors, whispered plots, and the knowledge that the first circle has been entered—and that nothing inside will ever be the same again.
Night drapes the estate like a shroud, cloaking courtyards and corridors in darkness. Lanterns flicker faintly, revealing glimpses of marble floors and carved wooden panels, but nothing betrays the true dangers hidden in shadow. Zhen Yan steps forward, ghost mask in place, daggers in hand, sword sheathed but ready. Behind him, the companions follow with silent precision—every movement deliberate, every breath controlled. They know the estate is a labyrinth, not merely of walls and rooms, but of deception, betrayal, and carefully planted death.
The first trap strikes without warning, a tile collapses beneath Zhen Yan's foot, revealing a pit lined with sharpened stakes. He twists midair, daggers spinning, and hooks a rope dangling nearby to steady himself. The companions halt, assessing the path, eyes sharp, muscles coiled.
"They know we are coming," Zhen Yan murmurs, voice low, almost lost beneath the wind rustling through the tall courtyard walls. "Every step is watched, every breath anticipated."
The monk steps forward, examining the ground. "They expect caution, yet do not know how far you will push it," he observes. "That is their weakness."
Zhen Yan nods slightly, sliding forward with the fluidity of a shadow. "Then we turn their strengths against them."
Hallways stretch endlessly, but they are deceptive. Hidden doors open into chambers where weapons hang suspended by wires. Pressure plates trigger mechanisms designed to crush, slice, or poison. Zhen Yan leads with instinct, his senses sharper than any trap's design. He pauses before a carved door, noticing a faint imbalance in the paneling. A dagger spins from his hand, striking the panel at just the right angle to disengage a hidden latch. The door opens silently, revealing a corridor lined with mirrors. Reflections twist reality, making the hall appear longer than it is.
"The main house loves illusions," Zhen Yan says, moving forward. "And yet illusions are only as dangerous as the mind that fears them."
In the mirrored corridor, shadows move—figures cloaked in black, weapons drawn, eyes cold and unreadable. Ambush.
Zhen Yan spins, daggers slicing through air, sword following in deadly arcs. His companions fall into motion—swordsman intercepts one attacker, spearwoman knocks another off balance, monk disarms a third. Each strike is precise, a calculated balance between subduing and warning.
Steel clashes against steel, the sound echoing through the mirrors, amplified and distorted. The enemies' formations are skilled, but they are unprepared for a team that moves as one.
One by one, the attackers are neutralized—some retreat, some lie stunned, others escape into hidden corridors. Zhen Yan's dagger slices the final rope trap, severing it with a soft snap.
He exhales, stepping over the unconscious forms. "This is only the first layer. They will not stop sending tests until I reach the heart."
Beyond the mirrored corridor lies a room of silence, velvet-draped walls, and a single figure seated at a low table. A letter rests before them, wax seal broken, sigil unmistakable: his true family.
"You've come," the figure says softly, almost mockingly. "Faster than expected, yet slower than I had hoped. You've learned much about loyalty, courage… but nothing about yourself."
Zhen Yan tilts his head. "I know enough. You hide behind walls and games. You destroy families for amusement. You call it lessons. And you dare sit here as if you have not sown the seeds that bloom in my blade."
The figure smiles faintly. "Ah, Windshadow. Always dramatic. And yet… you still carry a child's mercy beneath the mask."
Zhen Yan grips his sword, blade whispering against its sheath. "Mercy is earned. I have none left for you."
The companion swordsman glances at him, eyes understanding the weight of the moment. "This is what we were meant for," he mutters. "To stand beside the storm."
Zhen Yan's gaze flicks to the others. They nod subtly. The ghost mask tilts forward as he steps toward the table.
"Then let the lessons begin," he says.
The firelight flickers across the room. Shadows bend unnaturally. Outside, the estate remains silent, yet every corner waits with bated breath—for what comes next will not be a mere skirmish. It will be a reckoning.