The night was a jagged wound, the air sharp with the scent of pine and blood as Luochen and Xiaoyu fled the Bao Clan stronghold. The fortress’s horns blared behind them, a relentless wail that chased them through the underbrush of Yanshan Pass. Luochen’s shoulder bled freely now, the spear wound torn wider by their escape, and his ribs screamed with every ragged breath. Xiaoyu stumbled beside him, her arm dripping red from the dagger gash, her face pale but set with grim determination. Bao Tian was dead—a victory carved in steel and vengeance—but the cost had been steep, and the Pass still held Bao Zheng, the serpent’s head they’d yet to strike.

They pushed through a thicket, thorns snagging their cloaks, until the terrain leveled into a shallow gulley flanked by stunted trees. Luochen leaned against a trunk, chest heaving, and Xiaoyu sank to her knees, clutching her arm. The horns faded, the pursuit scattering into the dark, but the silence felt like a trap waiting to spring.

“We can’t stop long,” Luochen rasped, wiping sweat and blood from his brow. “They’ll regroup—hunt us down.”

Xiaoyu nodded, tearing a strip from her cloak to rebind her wound. “Jianren gave us a head start,” she said, her voice hollow. “Won’t last.”

He watched her, the firelight gone from her eyes, replaced by a storm of guilt and grief. “You spared him,” he said, not an accusation, just truth. “He let us go.”

“For now,” she muttered, tightening the cloth with a wince. “He’s still theirs. Zheng’s dog.”

Luochen slid down beside her, his sword clattering to the dirt. “He’s your brother, Xiaoyu. Blood’s not easy to cut.”

She glared at him, tears brimming but unshed. “Don’t. I know what he is—what he chose. I should’ve ended it back there.”

He rested a hand on her shoulder, gentle despite the pain racking his body. “You’re not me. Meiqi’s dead—I had no choice to make. Jianren’s alive, and that’s a heavier blade.”

She looked away, wiping her face with a bloody sleeve, and the gulley fell silent, save for the wind’s low moan. Luochen checked his shoulder—blood soaked through the bandage, sluggish but steady—and tore his own cloak to reinforce it. They were a mess, both of them, but Yanshan Pass wasn’t done with them yet. Bao Zheng waited, and with him, the end of their road.

A twig snapped, sharp and close.

They surged to their feet, Luochen’s sword up, Xiaoyu’s daggers drawn, their wounds forgotten in the rush of adrenaline. Shadows shifted among the trees—five figures, cloaked in Bao Clan gray, their blades glinting in the faint moonlight. At their head stood Jianren, his short sword steady, his face a mask of resignation and dread.

“Xiaoyu,” he said, stepping forward, his voice cracking. “I told you to go.”

She froze, daggers trembling in her hands. “You led them here,” she whispered, the words a wound. “Again.”

Jianren shook his head, his eyes pleading. “I didn’t—I tried to mislead them, send them south. Zheng knew. He sent me anyway—said if I didn’t bring you back, he’d burn every village left in Jianyun.”

Luochen stepped beside her, blade leveled at Jianren. “Then you’re a coward,” he growled. “Tian’s dead because of us. Zheng’s next. Stand aside, or you’re with them.”

The soldiers fanned out, sabers and spears poised, but Jianren raised a hand, holding them back. “Xiaoyu, listen,” he said, desperate. “Zheng’s in the main hall—summit’s tomorrow. He’s got fifty men, traps, everything. You won’t reach him—not like this.”

“Why tell me?” she snapped, advancing a step. “So I’ll run? Hide while you crawl back to him?”

“No,” Jianren said, lowering his sword. “So you’ll live. I can’t—I can’t watch you die.”

Her voice broke, raw and furious. “You chose them over me—twice now. You don’t get to care!”

The soldiers moved, tired of waiting, and the gulley erupted. Luochen met the first, his sword slashing through a spearman’s chest, blood spraying the dirt. The second swung a saber, clipping his arm, and he roared, driving his blade into the man’s gut. Xiaoyu darted past Jianren, her daggers a whirlwind—she gutted one soldier, then spun, blocking a thrust that grazed her thigh.

Jianren shouted, lunging to stop her, but not to strike. “Xiaoyu, stop!” he cried, grabbing her arm. She twisted free, her dagger slashing his cheek—a shallow cut, but blood welled, stark against his pale skin.

“Stay back!” she hissed, tears streaming now, and turned to fell the last soldier, her blade piercing his throat. The gulley quieted, bodies littering the ground, and she faced Jianren, chest heaving, daggers slick with red.

Luochen staggered to her side, blood dripping from his arm, his sword heavy in his grip. “Finish it,” he said, voice low. “He’ll keep coming.”

Jianren dropped to his knees, his sword clattering, hands raised in surrender. “I won’t fight you,” he said, voice trembling. “I betrayed you—I know it. But I never stopped loving you, sister. Kill me if you have to. Just… don’t let Zheng win.”

Xiaoyu stood over him, her daggers poised, her face a battlefield of rage and sorrow. “You broke us,” she whispered. “Everything we were—gone because of you.”

“I know,” he said, tears cutting tracks through the blood on his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

She raised a dagger, the blade catching the moonlight, and Luochen watched, silent, his own heart twisting. He’d killed for Meiqi, spilled Tian’s blood without a second thought—but this was different, a wound deeper than steel could cut. Xiaoyu’s hand shook, her breath hitching, and then she struck.

The dagger plunged into Jianren’s chest, swift and sure, piercing his heart. He gasped, a soft, broken sound, and slumped forward, his hands grasping at her cloak. “Thank you,” he whispered, blood bubbling on his lips, and went still, his eyes glazing in the dark.

Xiaoyu dropped the dagger, falling to her knees beside him, a keening wail tearing from her throat. She clutched his body, rocking, her tears mixing with his blood. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, over and over, the words a mantra of grief and guilt.

Luochen sheathed his sword, his wounds forgotten, and knelt beside her, pulling her into his arms. She resisted at first, then collapsed against him, her sobs shaking them both. “I had to,” she choked. “I had to.”

“I know,” he said, holding her tight, his voice rough with shared pain. “He chose his end. You gave him mercy.”

She clung to him, the gulley silent save for her cries, the weight of Jianren’s death settling like ash. Luochen stroked her hair, his own eyes burning—for Meiqi, for Xiaoyu, for the blood they couldn’t escape. Minutes stretched, the night swallowing their grief, until her sobs quieted, her breathing steadying.

“We need to go,” he said gently, easing her back. “Zheng’s still there.”

She nodded, wiping her face, and rose, retrieving her daggers with trembling hands. Jianren lay still, his blood soaking the earth, and she didn’t look back as they gathered their gear. Luochen’s shoulder bled anew, his strength fading, but he pushed on, Xiaoyu at his side—a broken pair, bound by loss and resolve.

The horns sounded again, closer now, the Bao Clan roused by the skirmish. Luochen grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the trees. “Run,” he said, and they fled, the gulley a grave behind them, Yanshan Pass a looming promise ahead.

They stumbled through the dark, branches clawing at their wounds, until the pursuit faded once more. A rocky outcrop offered shelter, and they collapsed into it, breathless and bleeding. Xiaoyu stared at her hands, Jianren’s blood caked beneath her nails, and Luochen pulled her close again, his arm around her shoulders.

“He’s gone,” she said, voice hollow. “I should’ve killed him sooner.”

“You gave him a chance,” Luochen said. “More than he deserved.”

She leaned into him, her warmth a faint anchor against the cold. “Zheng’s next,” she murmured. “No more chances.”

“No more,” he agreed, his sword beside him, its edge hungry for the final cut.

The night stretched on, the Pass a shadow in the distance, Bao Zheng’s reckoning drawing near. Jianren’s blood marked their path, a sacrifice that broke Xiaoyu but didn’t bury her. Together, they rested, their wounds a testament to survival, their hearts a fire that refused to die.