The storeroom was a cage of stone and shadow, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the low hum of Bao Zheng’s menace. Luochen leaned against a crate, his sword trembling in his grip, blood dripping from his shoulder and leg, his vision swimming with pain and fatigue. Xiaoyu stood before him, daggers raised, her wounded arm steady despite the red seeping through her bandage. Bao Zheng towered at the room’s entrance, his broadsword gleaming, his black armor a wall of death. Ten soldiers flanked him, their weapons poised, eyes cold with intent.

“You’ve carved a bloody path,” Zheng said, his voice a growl that filled the space. “Tian’s head, my men, even that weakling Jianren. Impressive—for two rats.”

Xiaoyu spat again, her glare cutting through the haze. “You’ll join them soon,” she said, her voice a blade of its own. “For my village, my family—everything you took.”

Zheng’s laugh was a rumble, his sword tilting toward her. “Bold words. Let’s see if your steel matches them.”

He stepped forward, and the soldiers surged, a tide of steel crashing toward them. Luochen pushed off the crate, his leg buckling but holding, and met the first with a slash that cleaved through armor and chest. Blood sprayed, hot and slick, and he parried a spear thrust, driving his sword into the man’s gut. Xiaoyu danced beside him, daggers flashing—she ducked a saber, gutted its wielder, then spun, slashing another’s throat. Together, they were a storm, their blades singing a song of defiance, but the numbers pressed, relentless.

An arrow grazed Luochen’s arm, tearing flesh, and he stumbled, his sword clanging against a crate. Xiaoyu shielded him, her dagger deflecting a spear, but a saber caught her side, a shallow cut that drew a hiss of pain. They fought back-to-back, their breaths ragged, their wounds bleeding anew—five down, five to go, Zheng watching with a predator’s patience.

Luochen’s strength faltered, his shoulder a blazing agony, and a soldier’s spear thrust for his heart. Xiaoyu shoved him aside, taking the blow—a glancing strike to her thigh, blood welling—and she stabbed the man’s eye, dropping him. “Stay up!” she shouted, her voice cracking, and Luochen gritted his teeth, slashing through another’s legs.

Three left, plus Zheng, but the room spun, their blood pooling on the stone. Zheng raised a hand, halting his men, and stepped closer, his sword dragging a slow, deliberate line across the floor. “Enough play,” he said. “Time to end this.”

Before he could strike, a shadow moved—a blur of black from the corridor, a curved blade flashing. Gu Yin burst into the room, his cloak stained with fresh blood, his wounded arm stiff but his steel alive. He slashed through one soldier’s back, then pivoted, cutting another’s throat in a spray of red. The third turned, saber raised, but Gu Yin’s dagger flew, burying in his chest, and the man crumpled.

Luochen and Xiaoyu froze, blades up, as Zheng snarled, his gaze snapping to the assassin. “You,” he growled. “I paid you gold to kill them.”

Gu Yin smirked, wiping blood from his blade, his hawkish eyes glinting. “I tire of your coin, Zheng. These two—they’ve got more fight than your dogs. Worth betting on.”

Xiaoyu’s daggers wavered, her voice sharp. “You’re dead—we killed you.”

“Thought so, didn’t I?” Gu Yin said, stepping beside them. “Took a tumble, not a grave. Crawled out, patched up. Figured I’d see who wins this mess.”

Luochen steadied his sword, mistrust warring with necessity. “Why switch sides?”

Gu Yin shrugged, his grin thin. “Honor’s a lie, but I like a challenge. Zheng’s a bore—predictable. You two? Chaos. Keeps it interesting.”

Zheng’s face darkened, his grip tightening on his broadsword. “Traitorous snake,” he spat. “I’ll gut you all.”

He charged, blade swinging in a brutal arc. Luochen parried, the impact jarring his wounds, and stumbled back, blood dripping faster. Xiaoyu darted in, daggers slashing at Zheng’s legs, but he kicked her hard, sending her crashing into a barrel. Gu Yin flanked, his curved blade clashing with Zheng’s, sparks flying—the assassin’s speed matched the warlord’s power, a deadlock of steel.

Luochen recovered, lunging at Zheng’s side, his sword piercing armor and flesh—a shallow cut, but blood welled, dark and thick. Zheng roared, swinging wildly, and Gu Yin ducked, slashing his thigh. Xiaoyu rose, limping, and hurled a dagger—it sank into Zheng’s shoulder, drawing a grunt, but he fought on, a titan fueled by rage.

The storeroom shook with their clash—three against one, a desperate dance. Luochen’s leg gave out, dropping him to a knee, and Zheng’s blade descended, aiming to cleave his skull. Gu Yin shoved him aside, taking a glancing blow to the arm, and Xiaoyu leapt onto Zheng’s back, her dagger stabbing his neck. Blood sprayed, hot and red, and Zheng staggered, his sword clanging to the floor.

“Now!” Gu Yin shouted, and Luochen drove his sword upward, piercing Zheng’s gut. Xiaoyu twisted her dagger, and Gu Yin slashed across Zheng’s chest—a trio of death, each strike a vow. Zheng gasped, a wet, choking sound, and collapsed, his blood pooling around him, his eyes glazing in the torchlight.

Silence fell, heavy and absolute. Luochen sank back, his sword slipping from his grip, his body a tapestry of pain. Xiaoyu dropped beside him, clutching her side, her breath ragged. Gu Yin leaned against a crate, blood dripping from his arm, his smirk gone but his eyes alive.

“Done,” Xiaoyu whispered, staring at Zheng’s corpse. “He’s done.”

Luochen nodded, his hand finding hers, their blood mingling on the stone. “For Meiqi. For your village.”

Gu Yin sheathed his blade, wincing as he flexed his arm. “Good fight,” he said. “Worth the switch.”

Before they could reply, horns blared—louder, closer, the summit roused by Zheng’s fall. The storeroom door burst open, and shadows flooded in—twenty soldiers, maybe more, their weapons gleaming, their shouts a roar of vengeance. Luochen cursed, grabbing his sword, but his strength was spent, his limbs leaden.

Xiaoyu stood, daggers trembling, and Gu Yin stepped forward, his blade up. “Run,” he said, voice low. “I’ll hold them.”

“No,” Xiaoyu snapped, but Luochen pulled her back, his grip weak but insistent.

“He’s right,” he rasped. “We can’t take them—not now.”

Gu Yin grinned, a flicker of his old taunt. “Go. Finish your story. I’ll buy you time.”

The soldiers charged, and Gu Yin met them, his blade a blur—two fell in seconds, blood spraying, but the tide pressed. Luochen dragged Xiaoyu toward a side hatch, the storeroom shrinking behind them. She resisted, tears in her eyes, but he pushed her through, following as Gu Yin’s shouts faded into the clash of steel.

They stumbled into a narrow tunnel, the fortress’s underbelly, and ran, their wounds bleeding trails behind them. The sounds of battle dimmed—Gu Yin’s stand, a fleeting shield—and they emerged into the Pass’s cold air, the cliffs towering above. Luochen collapsed against a rock, his breath a wheeze, and Xiaoyu sank beside him, her daggers clattering.

“He stayed,” she said, voice breaking. “Why?”

“Redemption, maybe,” Luochen said, his hand squeezing hers. “Or just chaos.”

She nodded, wiping her face, and they sat, the storm gathering above—clouds rolling in, the Pass alive with pursuit. Zheng was dead, their vengeance nearly complete, but the fortress still stood, its soldiers hunting. Luochen’s wounds bled, Xiaoyu’s strength waned, but their eyes met, a shared fire burning through the despair.

“Main hall,” Xiaoyu said, her voice steadying. “We burn it down—end them all.”

Luochen smirked, faint but fierce. “Together.”

They rose, leaning on each other, their blades heavy but ready. The Pass stretched before them, a battlefield of blood and ash, and they limped toward it, the gathering storm a mirror to their resolve—broken, bleeding, but unbowed.