The rain came down in sheets, cold and relentless, soaking the earth until it bled red. Luochen knelt before the mound of dirt, his knees sinking into the mud, his black robes plastered to his skin. The grave was unmarked, a simple heap of soil and stones he’d piled with his own hands. No tombstone, no name—just her, beneath it all, silent as the storm that drowned the world around him. Meiqi. His Meiqi.

His sword rested across his thighs, its blade dulled by the downpour but still sharp enough to cut through memory. He traced a finger along its edge, feeling the nick where it had last tasted blood—hers, spilled on a night much like this one. The Bao Clan had taken her from him, and now the rain washed away the last of her scent, leaving only the ache in his chest and the fire in his veins.

He closed his eyes, and she was there again. Meiqi laughing by the riverbank, her hair catching the sunlight like threads of silk. Meiqi pressing a lotus flower into his palm, her fingers soft against his calluses. Meiqi screaming as Bao Tian’s blade tore through her, her body crumpling while Luochen fought, too late, too weak, against a tide of steel and treachery. The memory twisted in his gut like a knife, and he gripped the hilt of his sword until his knuckles whitened.

“This is only the beginning,” he whispered, his voice swallowed by the storm.

The wind howled, carrying the distant clatter of hooves. Luochen’s eyes snapped open, narrowing as he rose to his feet. Shadows moved through the rain—five figures on horseback, their cloaks snapping like banners of death. Bao Clan scouts, no doubt, sent to ensure no loose ends lingered after their massacre. They hadn’t counted on him surviving. Their mistake.

He stepped away from the grave, boots squelching in the mire, and drew his sword with a slow, deliberate rasp. The blade gleamed faintly, catching the flicker of lightning overhead. Let them come. Let them see what they’d sown.

The riders slowed as they spotted him, fanning out in a half-circle. Their leader, a broad-shouldered man with a scarred cheek, leaned forward in his saddle, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. “Luochen,” he called, voice rough as gravel. “You should’ve stayed dead with her.”

Luochen tilted his head, water streaming down his face. “Tell Bao Tian I’m coming for him. Tell him I’ll carve his heart out and feed it to the dogs.”

Scarface laughed, a harsh bark that echoed over the patter of rain. “Bold words for a corpse. You’re alone now, swordsman. No woman to shield, no clan to back you. Just a fool in the mud.”

The others chuckled, drawing weapons—sabers and spears, their edges glinting wetly. Luochen said nothing. Words were wind, and he was done with them. He shifted his stance, feet sliding into the earth, sword held low and loose. The rain stung his eyes, but he didn’t blink.

Scarface spurred his horse forward, saber raised high. “End him!”

The first rider charged, spear thrusting for Luochen’s chest. He sidestepped, mud sucking at his boots, and brought his sword up in a single, fluid arc. The blade bit through the spear shaft, then the man’s wrist, sending hand and weapon spinning into the storm. The rider screamed, clutching the stump as his horse reared, and Luochen drove his sword through the beast’s flank. Horse and man collapsed in a tangle of blood and thrashing limbs, the rain washing it all red.

The others hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. Two came at once, sabers slashing from horseback. Luochen ducked low, letting the first blade whistle over his head, and rolled through the mud as the second grazed his shoulder. Pain flared, hot and sharp, but he ignored it. He sprang up behind the second rider, grabbing the man’s cloak and yanking him from the saddle. The scout hit the ground hard, skull cracking against a stone, and Luochen finished him with a thrust through the throat.

The first rider wheeled back, cursing as he swung again. Luochen parried, steel clashing with a ring that cut through the storm. Sparks flew, dim in the downpour. He twisted his wrist, locking the saber against his blade, and drove his elbow into the rider’s jaw. Bone crunched, and the man toppled, senseless. Luochen stepped over him, sword plunging down to silence the groaning.

Three down. Two left.

Scarface snarled, gesturing to the last rider—a wiry figure with a spear. “Flank him! Now!”

The wiry one circled wide, horse kicking up mud, while Scarface charged head-on. Luochen pivoted, keeping both in his sight. The spearman thrust first, aiming for his back. Luochen dropped flat, the point slicing air above him, and slashed upward as the horse passed. His blade caught the rider’s leg, severing tendons. The man shrieked, tumbling into the mud, and Luochen rolled to his feet just as Scarface’s saber descended.

He blocked high, the impact jarring his arms, and stumbled back under the horse’s momentum. Scarface pressed the attack, hacking wildly, each blow heavier than the last. Luochen’s boots slid in the mire, his shoulder throbbing where the earlier cut wept blood. He gritted his teeth, waiting for an opening.

It came when Scarface overreached, saber swinging too wide. Luochen lunged inside the arc, driving his sword up under the man’s ribs. The blade sank deep, scraping bone, and Scarface gasped, eyes wide with shock. Luochen twisted the hilt, feeling the life drain out, then yanked the weapon free. The scout slumped forward, sliding from the saddle into a heap.

The horse bolted, leaving only the rain and the dying. Luochen turned, chest heaving, and saw the wiry spearman crawling through the mud, clutching his ruined leg. The man whimpered, dragging himself toward a fallen spear. Luochen walked over, slow and deliberate, his shadow falling across the scout’s face.

“Mercy,” the man croaked, rain mixing with the tears on his cheeks. “Please…”

Luochen stared down at him, his sword dripping red. He saw Meiqi again—her pleading eyes, her broken body—and the fire in his chest roared hotter. “You chose the wrong side,” he said, voice flat as stone. The blade fell, swift and final, and the whimpering stopped.

Silence settled, save for the rain’s endless drumming. Luochen wiped his sword on the dead man’s cloak, the crimson streaking into the fabric like spilled ink. He sheathed it and trudged back to the grave, the weight of the fight settling into his bones. Five men dead, and it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough until Bao Tian’s blood joined theirs.

He knelt again, pressing a hand to the muddy earth. “I’ll find him, Meiqi,” he murmured. “I’ll make them all pay.”

Lightning split the sky, illuminating the carnage around him—bodies sprawled like broken dolls, the ground a churned mess of blood and water. He rose, turning his back on the grave, and started walking. The rain followed, a cold shroud that clung to him like guilt. Somewhere out there, Bao Tian waited, smug and untouchable. Luochen would change that. He’d carve a path through the martial world, through every thug and warlord who stood in his way, until the Bao Clan was ash and memory.

The storm swallowed his footsteps as he vanished into the night, a blade forged in sorrow, tempered by rage. This was only the beginning.