The cliffs of Yanshan Pass loomed like the jaws of a beast, the Bao Clan stronghold carved into their heart—a fortress of gray stone and blackened timber, its walls bristling with watchtowers. Smoke coiled from its chimneys, the air thick with the tang of iron and sweat. Luochen and Xiaoyu crouched on a ridge overlooking the gates, their wounds bandaged but screaming with every move. Gu Yin’s blood still stained their blades, his death a fleeting triumph, but Bao Tian waited within, and with him, the end of their hunt—or their lives.

Luochen’s shoulder was a mess, the spear wound a raw ache beneath Xiaoyu’s binding, and his ribs throbbed from the saber cut. Xiaoyu flexed her arm, the dagger gash seeping through her makeshift bandage, but her eyes burned with resolve. The fortress gates stood open, soldiers moving crates and sharpening blades—preparing for the clan summit, oblivious to the storm creeping closer.

“The side path,” Luochen said, nodding to the scout’s map spread between them. “Leads to a drainage tunnel—gets us inside.”

Xiaoyu traced the route with a finger, her jaw tight. “Guards’ll be light there. Tian’s tent was north of the camp last time. He’ll be deeper in now, healing.”

“And Jianren?” he asked, watching her face.

She didn’t flinch, but her voice hardened. “With Zheng, probably. We deal with Tian first.”

He nodded, folding the map. “Let’s move.”

They descended the ridge, skirting the main approach, the path a treacherous scramble of loose rock and thorn. Twilight deepened as they reached the tunnel—a grated hole at the cliff’s base, its bars rusted and bent. Luochen wedged his sword between them, prying until the metal groaned and snapped, and they slipped inside, the stench of damp stone and rot choking the air.

The tunnel sloped upward, water trickling underfoot, and they moved in silence, blades drawn. It spilled into a storage room—crates of rice and oil, shadows dancing from a single lantern. A guard slumped against the wall, snoring, a jug of wine at his feet. Xiaoyu slit his throat before he stirred, her dagger swift and silent, and they pressed on, emerging into the fortress’s underbelly.

The stronghold hummed with life—soldiers laughing, hammers ringing, the summit’s tension palpable. They hugged the walls, cloaks shadowing their faces, and slipped through a courtyard toward the northern wing. A tent loomed ahead, larger than the rest, its flap guarded by two spearmen. Luochen recognized the silhouette within—Bao Tian, pacing, his arm in a sling from their last clash.

“There,” he whispered, and Xiaoyu nodded, her grip tightening on her daggers.

They struck as one—Luochen’s sword cleaved through the first guard’s neck, Xiaoyu’s dagger piercing the second’s heart. The bodies crumpled, and they burst into the tent, steel flashing in the lantern light.

Bao Tian spun, his longsword drawn despite the sling, his face a snarl of rage and pain. “You again,” he growled, bloodshot eyes narrowing. “Should’ve died on the road.”

Luochen charged, blade slashing for Tian’s chest. “For Meiqi,” he hissed, and their swords met, a clash that shook the tent. Tian roared, shoving back with brutish strength, his wound slowing him but not stopping him. Xiaoyu flanked, daggers darting for his legs, but Tian kicked a table into her path, wood splintering as she stumbled.

Luochen pressed, his strikes a relentless storm—high, low, thrusting for Tian’s heart. The enforcer parried, steel shrieking, and swung a savage backhand that caught Luochen’s wounded shoulder. Pain exploded, white-hot, and he staggered, blood soaking through the bandage. Tian grinned, raising his sword for the kill.

Xiaoyu lunged, her dagger sinking into Tian’s thigh. He bellowed, slashing at her, and she rolled clear, the blade grazing her cloak. Luochen recovered, driving his sword through Tian’s side—the same spot he’d hit before, now deeper, past ribs into vitals. Tian gasped, blood bubbling on his lips, and swung wildly, his strength fading.

“For her,” Luochen snarled, twisting the blade. Tian’s eyes rolled back, his body slumping, and Luochen yanked the sword free, letting the corpse crumple. Blood pooled, dark and final, and he stood over it, chest heaving, Meiqi’s ghost quiet at last.

Xiaoyu rose, breathing hard, and touched his arm. “It’s done,” she said, voice soft but firm.

He nodded, the weight lifting, but the tent flap burst open before they could savor it. Jianren stood there, his short blade drawn, flanked by four soldiers—Bao Clan elites, their armor gleaming. His face was pale, streaked with sweat, his eyes locked on Xiaoyu.

“Sister,” he said, voice breaking. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Xiaoyu stepped forward, daggers raised, her expression a mask of fury and sorrow. “You led them here,” she said. “Tracked us again.”

“I had to,” Jianren said, his blade trembling. “Zheng’s orders—he’s in the main hall, waiting. I begged him to spare you, but you killed Tian. There’s no going back.”

Luochen wiped his sword, stepping beside her. “Move, boy, or you’re next.”

Jianren’s gaze flicked to him, then back to Xiaoyu. “Leave, Xiaoyu. Please. I’ll hold them off—just go.”

“You’re with them,” she spat, advancing. “You chose this.”

The soldiers charged, cutting off her words. Luochen met two, his sword a blur—parrying a spear, slashing a saber-wielder’s throat. Blood sprayed, and he ducked a second thrust, driving his blade through the man’s chest. Xiaoyu faced the others, her daggers weaving—she gutted one, then spun, blocking a blow that numbed her arm.

Jianren lunged at her, blade aimed to disarm, not kill. “Stop!” he shouted, and she parried, their steel clashing in a frantic dance. “I don’t want this!”

“Then why?” she cried, slashing his arm. Blood welled, and he staggered, pain twisting his face.

“Zheng owns me,” he gasped, blocking her next strike. “I had no choice!”

Luochen felled his last foe, turning to aid her, but shouts echoed outside—more guards, roused by the fight. The tent shook as boots pounded closer. Xiaoyu pinned Jianren against a pole, her dagger at his throat, tears streaking her face.

“You’re my brother,” she whispered, voice raw. “Why?”

Jianren’s eyes softened, regret pooling there. “I’m sorry,” he said, and dropped his blade, hands raised. “Go. Now.”

She hesitated, the dagger trembling, then pulled back, sparing him. Luochen grabbed her arm, dragging her toward the rear of the tent. “We’re out of time!”

They slashed through the canvas, bursting into a narrow alley between tents. Arrows whistled past, one striking Luochen’s pack, and he cursed, his shoulder bleeding anew. Xiaoyu stumbled, her arm dripping red, but they ran, weaving through the camp as horns blared and torches flared.

A wall loomed ahead—a low barricade, climbable. Luochen boosted Xiaoyu over, her boots scrabbling, then hauled himself up, pain searing his side. They dropped into a ditch on the other side, rolling into the shadows as soldiers swarmed the camp behind them.

They crawled through the underbrush, the fortress’s lights fading, until the noise dimmed to a distant hum. Luochen collapsed against a tree, blood soaking his robe, his breath ragged. Xiaoyu slumped beside him, clutching her arm, her face streaked with dirt and tears.

“Tian’s dead,” he said, voice hoarse. “Meiqi’s avenged.”

She nodded, staring into the dark. “Jianren… I couldn’t.”

“I know,” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “But he let us go.”

“For now,” she murmured, her voice hollow. “Zheng’s still there. This isn’t over.”

Luochen pulled her close, her head against his chest, and they sat in silence, the night wrapping around them. His wounds bled, her heart broke, but they’d survived—Bao Tian was a corpse, and their blades still hungered. The Pass stretched beyond, Zheng’s shadow looming, and Jianren’s choice a wound yet to heal.