The side ring cleared quickly after Mei's throws.
Spectators pressed closer, murmuring. A few tossed copper coins onto the wooden platform—small bets, small respect. The organizer, still staring at the split knife in the dead center of the target, finally found his voice.
"Name for the ledger," he said, scratching quill on parchment.
Mei hesitated half a heartbeat.
"Shadow Thorn," she answered. Low. Steady. The mask helped; the name felt less like a lie when half her face was hidden.
The man snorted. "Fancy. You're in the main event. Third bout. Don't die before then."
He waved her off.
Sùyīn tugged her sleeve, pulling her back into the crowd before anyone could ask too many questions. They found a shadowed corner near a sweets stall, the smell of sesame candy thick in the air.
"You're insane," Sùyīn whispered. "You just signed up to duel in front of the woman who exiled you."
"I didn't sign up to duel her," Mei said. "I signed up to be seen by her."
Sùyīn stared at the white fox mask still visible across the square. The silver braid hadn't moved again, but Mei could feel the weight of that gaze like frost settling on skin.
"There's a difference between being seen and being gutted," Sùyīn said. "You're playing with fire. And she's the coldest flame in the empire."
Mei touched the jade hairpin. It was quiet now—almost smug.
"I know."
Drums rolled once—deep, impatient. The announcer's voice cut through the chatter.
"First bout! Iron Ox versus Willow Dancer!"
Two contestants stepped onto the platform.
The crowd roared.
Mei watched the first two matches with half her attention. Iron Ox was a mountain of muscle who fought like he was trying to murder the air itself—broad sweeps, heavy qi-charged strikes that cracked planks. Willow Dancer was lighter, faster—flowing dodges, needle-thin blades that drew blood without ever seeming to touch. She won by a hair, leaving the Ox bleeding from half a dozen shallow cuts and limping off the stage.
Second bout was quicker. A lean youth with twin hook-swords against a woman wielding a chain-whip. The chain caught one hook, yanked; the youth overcommitted. Whip cracked across his throat. He dropped. Medics dragged him away.
Then the announcer called:
"Third bout! Shadow Thorn versus Crimson Fang!"
Mei's stomach lurched.
She looked toward the platform.
Her opponent was already waiting—tall, broad-shouldered, crimson-dyed hair tied back with a leather cord. One of the Black Lotus hunters from the valley ambush. Not the leader, but one of the three who'd walked away. He carried the exact saber Mei had left behind in the dirt.
He recognized her the moment she stepped into the lantern light.
His lips curled.
"Well," he called, loud enough for the front rows to hear, "looks like the little traitor grew teeth."
Murmurs rippled outward.
Mei stepped onto the platform.
No sword.
No armor.
Just the borrowed gray robes, the black-and-silver mask, and the single throwing knife the organizer had allowed each contestant—one weapon, one life.
Crimson Fang laughed—short, ugly.
"You think you can beat me with a toy knife after what you did to my captain?"
Mei didn't answer.
She drew the knife slowly. Balanced it on her palm. Felt the hairpin stir—soft, instructive.
Distance. Timing. One throw. Make it mean something.
The announcer raised his hand.
"Begin!"
Crimson Fang moved first—fast, aggressive. Saber flashing in a diagonal arc meant to split her from shoulder to hip. Mei sidestepped—barely—felt the wind of the blade kiss her sleeve.
He pressed. Swing after swing. Each one heavier, each one faster. Mei danced back, keeping distance, letting him chase. The crowd cheered every near miss.
She waited.
He overextended on the fifth swing—saber coming down too hard, momentum carrying him forward.
Mei stepped inside.
Not to strike.
To throw.
She flicked her wrist—clean, precise, the same motion she'd used on the wooden target.
The knife spun once.
Buried itself to the hilt in the meat of his sword arm, just above the elbow.
Crimson Fang roared. The saber dropped from suddenly numb fingers.
He clutched the wound, blood welling between his knuckles.
Mei stepped back.
The announcer's voice rang out.
"Winner—Shadow Thorn!"
The crowd exploded.
Mei didn't celebrate.
She looked past the cheering faces, past the lanterns, straight to the pillar draped in red silk.
The white fox mask was still there.
And this time the silver-haired figure moved.
One slow step forward.
Then another.
The crowd parted without being asked.
Lán Xīuyīng walked toward the platform—unhurried, graceful, inevitable.
Every step made the air colder.
Mei's heart slammed against her ribs.
The hairpin burned—hot, fierce, almost joyful.
She's coming.
Xīuyīng stopped at the edge of the platform.
Looked up.
The fox mask hid her expression completely, but Mei could feel the weight of those winter eyes through the porcelain.
A long silence.
Then Xīuyīng spoke—voice low, clear, carrying over the suddenly hushed square.
"Shadow Thorn."
Mei swallowed.
"Yes."
Another beat.
"You fight… differently."
Mei's mouth was dry.
"I had a good teacher."
Xīuyīng tilted her head—just slightly.
"The hairpin."
Mei's hand rose instinctively to touch it.
Xīuyīng's gaze followed the motion.
For the first time, something flickered in that perfect stillness—something that wasn't ice.
Recognition.
Curiosity.
Danger.
Then she turned—braid swaying once—and walked back into the crowd.
The white fox mask disappeared behind red silk.
The announcer coughed.
"Next bout in ten minutes. Winners advance to the final round at midnight."
Mei stepped down from the platform on legs that felt borrowed.
Sùyīn was there instantly, grabbing her arm, pulling her into the shadows.
"Are you trying to die tonight?" she hissed.
Mei stared at the place where Xīuyīng had vanished.
"She spoke to me."
Sùyīn groaned. "Yes. And now every Black Lotus dog in this town knows exactly where you are."
Mei smiled—small, shaky, reckless.
"She said my fight was different."
Sùyīn looked at her like she'd lost her mind.
"And?"
"And she noticed."
Sùyīn sighed—long, exhausted.
"You're hopeless."
Mei touched the hairpin again.
It pulsed once—warm, steady, like a second heartbeat.
She noticed.
Midnight was coming.
And somewhere in the lantern-lit streets of Yānchéng, a silver braid moved through the crowd like frost creeping over glass.