The dawn broke cold and thin, the cliffs of Yanshan Pass casting long shadows over the winding trail known as the Silk Road—not for trade, but for the blood spilled along its dusty length. Luochen and Xiaoyu moved swiftly, the temple’s carnage a fresh scar in their minds. Jianren’s betrayal had hardened Xiaoyu’s eyes, her steps silent and purposeful, while Luochen’s ribs ached with every breath, the saber cut a dull fire beneath his torn robe. They were wounded, weary, but the Pass was close now—hours, not days—and Bao Tian’s trail burned brighter than their pain.

They crested a rise, the road stretching below like a faded ribbon, and froze. A Bao Clan caravan rumbled through the valley—three wagons laden with crates, flanked by a dozen riders and twice as many foot soldiers. The red serpent banner snapped in the wind, a taunt against the gray sky. Dust billowed behind them, their pace steady, heading north toward the Pass.

Luochen crouched behind a boulder, Xiaoyu beside him, her daggers glinting as she peered over the edge. “Supplies for the summit,” she said, voice low. “Weapons, maybe. Tian could be with them.”

He nodded, scanning the convoy. No sign of Tian’s broad frame or Gu Yin’s sleek shadow, but the wagons were too tempting to ignore. “If he’s not, they’ll know where he is,” he said. “We hit them hard, take a prisoner. Get answers.”

Xiaoyu’s jaw tightened, her gaze flicking to his side where blood stained his robe. “You’re hurt. This isn’t the Lotus House—there’s no crowd to hide in.”

“I’ve fought through worse,” he said, gripping his sword. “We wait for a choke point—narrow the odds.”

She didn’t argue, her silence a grudging assent. They shadowed the caravan, slipping through the scrub along the ridge, until the road dipped into a ravine—walls steep, the path barely wide enough for two wagons abreast. Perfect. Luochen pointed to a cluster of rocks overhanging the trail. “There. We drop from above, scatter them.”

Xiaoyu nodded, and they moved into position, the wind masking their steps. The caravan rolled closer, the clatter of hooves and creak of axles echoing off the stone. Luochen’s heart pounded, his wounds a dull roar, but his grip on his sword was steady. Xiaoyu crouched beside him, her breath shallow, her focus absolute—no hesitation now, not after Jianren.

“Now,” he whispered, and they leapt.

Luochen landed on the lead wagon’s roof, his sword slashing through the driver’s neck before the man could shout. Blood sprayed, hot and slick, and the horses reared, the wagon lurching as he jumped clear. Xiaoyu hit the ground beside the second wagon, daggers flashing—she gutted a rider, then rolled under the wheels, slicing the legs of another horse. Chaos erupted, screams and steel filling the ravine.

Luochen charged the foot soldiers, his blade a blur. He cleaved through a spearman’s chest, ducked a saber swing, and thrust upward, felling another. The caravan scattered, riders wheeling to flank him, but the narrow walls penned them in. Xiaoyu danced through the melee, her daggers finding throats and tendons, bodies dropping in her wake. Together, they were a storm—relentless, precise, unstoppable.

A mounted archer nocked an arrow, aiming for Luochen’s back. Xiaoyu saw it first, hurling a dagger that took the man in the eye. He toppled, the bow clattering, and Luochen spun, nodding thanks. “Keep moving!” she shouted, diving into the fray again.

The wagons stalled, horses panicking as the soldiers faltered. Luochen targeted a sergeant—a burly man with a mace, barking orders from the third wagon. He leapt onto the cart, parrying a crushing blow that numbed his arm, and drove his sword through the man’s gut. The sergeant roared, swinging wildly, and Luochen twisted the blade, silencing him. He shoved the body aside, searching for a commander—someone worth questioning.

Then he saw her—Xiaoyu, surrounded near the second wagon. Four soldiers closed in, sabers flashing, and she fought like a cornered wolf, her daggers weaving a deadly web. But a fifth crept behind, spear raised, and Luochen’s blood ran cold. She wouldn’t see it in time.

He vaulted off the wagon, sprinting through the chaos, his leg screaming with every step. The spearman thrust, aiming for Xiaoyu’s spine, and Luochen threw himself between them. The spear punched through his shoulder, steel grating bone, and he grunted, staggering but staying upright. His sword flashed, cutting the spearman’s throat, and the man collapsed, gurgling.

Xiaoyu spun, eyes wide as she saw the spear jutting from Luochen’s back. “You idiot!” she yelled, slashing through another soldier to reach him.

“Had to,” he rasped, gripping the shaft and yanking it free. Blood poured, hot and dark, but he waved her off, turning to face the last of the attackers. Three remained, regrouping near the first wagon, their faces pale with fear.

“Take one alive!” Luochen shouted, charging despite the pain. Xiaoyu flanked them, her daggers forcing them back, and Luochen felled one with a slash to the chest. The second swung a saber, clipping his arm, but he parried the next blow and drove his sword through the man’s hip, dropping him screaming.

Xiaoyu pinned the last—a wiry scout, his hands raised in surrender. She pressed a dagger to his throat, her voice ice. “Bao Tian. Where is he?”

“Yanshan Pass!” the scout stammered, sweat beading on his brow. “Summit’s tomorrow—clan leaders, Zheng too! Tian’s there, wounded but alive!”

Luochen loomed over him, blood dripping from his shoulder. “Gu Yin?”

“With Tian,” the scout said, trembling. “They’re waiting—knew you’d come.”

Xiaoyu’s blade pressed harder, drawing a thin red line. “Jianren?”

The scout hesitated, and she twisted his arm until he yelped. “With Zheng! He’s—he’s leading the rear guard!”

Her face darkened, but she eased the dagger back. Luochen nodded, satisfied. “Tie him up. We’re done here.”

She bound the scout’s hands with a strip of his own cloak, leaving him slumped against the wagon. The ravine was a slaughterhouse—bodies strewn, blood pooling in the dust, the air thick with death. Luochen sank to one knee, his shoulder a blazing agony, and Xiaoyu rushed to him, tearing her cloak to staunch the flow.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said, her voice tight as she pressed the cloth against the wound. “I could’ve handled it.”

“You’d be dead,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Couldn’t let that happen.”

Her hands faltered, her eyes searching his—anger, fear, something softer. “Why?”

He met her gaze, steady despite the pain. “You’re not just convenience anymore.”

She froze, then resumed binding the wound, her touch gentler now. “Fool,” she muttered, but there was no bite in it. “You’ll bleed out before we reach the Pass.”

“Not yet,” he said, forcing a smirk. “Tian’s waiting.”

She finished, helping him stand, and they leaned on each other, the caravan’s wreckage at their backs. The scout whimpered, ignored, as they surveyed the carnage. The Silk Road stretched north, the Pass a dark smear on the horizon, closer now—tomorrow’s battleground.

“We’ve got a day,” Xiaoyu said, her arm steadying him. “Rest, then we end this.”

Luochen nodded, the weight of his sword a comfort despite the blood loss. “Tian first. Then Zheng. Jianren’s yours.”

Her lips pressed thin, but she didn’t argue. They limped away from the ravine, the wind carrying the stench of death behind them. The ambush had cost them—Luochen’s shoulder was a mess, their strength sapped—but it had bought them truth. Bao Tian was at the Pass, Gu Yin with him, and Jianren loomed as Xiaoyu’s final reckoning.

As dusk fell, they found a hollow beneath an overhang, collapsing into it with groans. Xiaoyu tended his wound again, her hands steady, and he watched her, the flicker of firelight in her eyes a quiet anchor. They were battered, bleeding, but alive—and together, closer than ever, bound by the blood they’d spilled and the blood they’d shed for each other.