Two winters had passed since Xiaoyu left the valley village, the seasons blurring into a rhythm of dust and steel. The southern plains of Jianyun stretched before her now, a windswept expanse of brittle grass and scattered oaks, the sky a heavy gray promising rain. Her cloak hung threadbare, patched with scraps from fallen foes, and Luochen’s sword rested across her back, its weight a steady heartbeat against her spine. Her daggers gleamed at her waist, their edges honed by necessity, her hands scarred and steady. At thirty-three, her face bore lines of grief and grit, her hair tied back with a strip of faded cloth, gray threading its dark strands.

She’d roamed since Yanshan Pass, a shadow among the living—villages saved, bandits cut down, her name a whisper on the wind: the Widow of Yanshan, the blade who burned the Bao Clan to ash. The peace she’d won was fragile, the martial world still festering with warlords and scavengers, echoes of the chaos she’d ended. Luochen’s memory drove her steps, Jianren’s blood a quiet ache, and the valley’s gratitude a faint spark she guarded in the dark.

Her waterskin hung light, her stomach hollow from days of scant forage, and she followed a faint trail toward a river she’d heard of—clear water, a chance to rest. The plains were eerily still, the wind her only companion, until a plume of smoke rose in the distance, sharp against the gray. She slowed, hand on a dagger, instincts prickling. Smoke meant people—trouble, more often than not.

She crested a low rise, the river glinting below, and saw it—a caravan wrecked, wagons overturned, bodies strewn like broken dolls. Ten, maybe twelve, their blood soaking the grass, their goods scattered—silk, grain, a child’s doll with a torn arm. Bandits, she thought, but the cuts were too clean, the kills too precise. Her gaze narrowed, scanning the scene, and caught a flicker of movement—figures retreating toward a copse of trees, cloaks gray and familiar, a red serpent stitched on one.

Bao Clan remnants. Her pulse quickened, a cold fire igniting in her chest. She’d thought them dead, their power shattered at Yanshan—but echoes lingered, it seemed, clawing back from the grave.

Xiaoyu descended, her steps silent, Luochen’s sword drawn and low. The copse was dense, shadows pooling beneath the oaks, and she counted six—five men, one woman, their voices low as they rifled a stolen crate. The leader wore a patch over one eye, his saber scarred from use, his cloak bearing the serpent bold and clear. “Zheng’s bastard,” he muttered, kicking a sack. “Worth more than the old man ever paid.”

She froze, the name a blade in her gut—Zheng’s child, a legacy she hadn’t known. The woman, lean and sharp-faced, laughed, her bow slung across her back. “He’ll pay to get it back,” she said. “Or we’ll sell it south—either way, we eat.”

Xiaoyu stepped into the open, her sword glinting in the dim light. “You’re done eating,” she said, voice flat as stone.

They whirled, weapons up, and the leader’s eye widened, recognition flickering. “The Widow,” he snarled, saber raised. “Thought you’d crawled off to die.”

“Thought the same of you,” she replied, her daggers slipping into her hands. “Zheng’s dead. Tian too. Who’s this bastard you serve?”

The woman nocked an arrow, sneering. “His son—Bao Wei. Raised in shadows, stronger than the old man. You’ll meet him soon—over your corpse.”

Xiaoyu moved, ducking as the arrow flew, and charged. Luochen’s sword met the leader’s saber, steel clashing with a ring that shook the trees. She parried, twisted, and drove a dagger into his thigh, blood welling as he roared. The woman loosed another shot, grazing Xiaoyu’s cloak, and she rolled, slashing a bandit’s gut with her sword, his scream cut short.

Four remained, circling like wolves. A spearman thrust, and she sidestepped, her dagger piercing his throat, blood spraying the leaves. The woman drew a short blade, lunging, and Xiaoyu blocked with her sword, kicking her back into a tree. Two men charged, sabers flashing—she ducked one, slashed the other’s arm, then spun, her dagger finding his heart.

The woman recovered, blade slashing Xiaoyu’s arm—a shallow cut, stinging—and Xiaoyu retaliated, Luochen’s sword cleaving through her shoulder, dropping her in a heap. The last man hesitated, his saber trembling, and she stared him down, her voice ice. “Run or die.”

He bolted, disappearing into the plains, and Xiaoyu stood, chest heaving, blood dripping from her blades and her arm. The leader groaned, clutching his thigh, and she loomed over him, her sword at his throat. “Bao Wei,” she said. “Where?”

He spat blood, grinning through the pain. “East—old fort by the Wei River. He’s building—more men, more steel. You’re too late, Widow.”

She pressed the blade, ending his grin, his blood soaking the earth. The copse went still, the wind rustling the oaks, and she cleaned her weapons, her mind racing. Bao Wei—Zheng’s son, a new serpent rising from the ashes she’d burned. The fight wasn’t over, not yet.

She searched the crate—a jade pendant, Bao Clan markings etched deep, likely Wei’s birthright. She pocketed it, a token to draw him out, and gathered what she could—grain, a waterskin, a strip of silk to bind her arm. The caravan’s dead stared blankly, their loss a mirror to her own, and she whispered a promise to the wind—No more.

The river called, and she followed, filling her skin and washing the blood from her hands, the cold water a faint balm. She sat on its bank, the pendant heavy in her cloak, and ate the grain, her strength returning, her resolve hardening. Bao Wei was a threat—an echo of the fallen she couldn’t ignore. Luochen’s voice murmured in her ear—Live for both of us—and she nodded, her path clear.

She traveled east, the plains giving way to rolling hills, the Wei River a silver thread in the distance. Days blurred—nights under stars, meals of scavenged roots, her wounds scabbing over—but her weariness was a quiet thing, tempered by purpose. The fort rose on the horizon, a crumbling relic patched with new timber, its walls alive with guards, the red serpent fluttering above.

Xiaoyu watched from a ridge, counting—twenty men, maybe more, their discipline sharper than the rabble she’d cut down. Bao Wei’s shadow loomed, a legacy she’d end before it grew. She waited for dusk, the sky bleeding red, and slipped closer, Luochen’s sword a steady weight, her daggers poised.

A patrol passed—three men, careless—and she struck, silent and swift. One fell to her dagger, another to her sword, the third’s shout cut short by a thrust to the chest. She dragged them into the brush, her cloak blending with the dark, and crept to the fort’s edge, a broken grate her entry.

Inside, the fort hummed—soldiers drilling, a forge clanging, Bao Wei’s voice barking orders from a central tower. She moved through shadows, her blades ready, and reached the tower’s base, a ladder leading up. Guards stood at its foot, and she waited, patient as death, until one wandered off. Her dagger took the other, a clean kill, and she climbed, the pendant a cold weight against her chest.

Bao Wei stood at the tower’s top, a broad man in black armor, his face a younger Zheng—sharp, cruel, his broadsword sheathed. He turned as she emerged, his eyes narrowing, a grin twisting his lips. “The Widow,” he said, voice smooth. “Father’s killer. Come to die?”

“To finish it,” she said, dropping the pendant at his feet. “Your clan’s ash. You’re next.”

He laughed, drawing his sword, and charged, blade swinging for her head. She ducked, Luochen’s sword clashing with his, the impact jarring her arms. He was strong, fast—trained, not scavenged—and she fought weary but fierce, her daggers weaving with her sword. He slashed her thigh, blood welling, and she stabbed his arm, twisting away as he roared.

The tower shook with their duel—steel on steel, grunts and curses, her wounds slowing her but her will unyielding. She feinted with a dagger, then drove her sword into his side, blood spraying, and he staggered, swinging wildly. Her dagger found his throat, a final cut, and he fell, his blood pooling on the stone, his grin gone.

Xiaoyu sank to her knees, breath ragged, the fort quiet below—his men unaware, for now. She rose, limping to the edge, and tossed the pendant into the dark, a vow fulfilled. “No more tears,” she said, her voice steady, and descended, slipping out as shouts rose, the fort waking to its loss.

She walked west, the river at her back, Bao Wei’s echo silenced, the Bao Clan’s last spark snuffed. The plains stretched wide, the rain breaking at last, washing the blood from her hands. She was weary—bone-deep, soul-worn—but alive, her blades a testament to the fallen she honored. Luochen’s sword gleamed wet, Jianren’s memory a quiet ache, and she pressed on, a widow unbroken, her echoes a strength in the wind.