The rain had stopped by dawn, leaving the world damp and heavy. Luochen trudged along a rutted dirt road, the mud caking his boots with every step. His shoulder ached where the saber had grazed him, a shallow cut stitched crudely with thread from his pack. The pain was a dull companion, sharper only when he let his mind drift to Meiqi. He didn’t let it drift often.

The border town of Heitu loomed ahead, a squat cluster of wooden shacks and tiled roofs nestled against a jagged hillside. Smoke curled from chimneys, thin and gray against the bruised sky. It was the kind of place where men came to hide—or to hunt. Luochen needed information. Bao Tian wouldn’t stay in one place long, not after the blood he’d spilled, and Heitu was a crossroads for whispers from the martial world.

He adjusted the straw hat he’d scavenged from one of the dead scouts, pulling it low over his eyes. His sword hung at his hip, wrapped in a ragged cloth to dull its gleam. No sense advertising trouble until he meant to start it. The town’s edge greeted him with a creaking signpost, its characters faded: Heitu—Black Soil. Fitting, he thought. Everything here felt stained.

The streets were narrow, slick with runoff, and alive with the hum of early trade. Hawkers shouted over the clatter of carts, their voices hoarse as they peddled wilted greens and dented pots. Luochen moved through the crowd, a shadow among shadows, his gaze flicking to every face. A drunk slumped against a wall, a pair of grim-faced men haggling over a horse, a woman sweeping her stoop—none wore the Bao Clan’s mark, a coiled serpent stitched in red. Good. He wasn’t ready for another fight. Not yet.

He found what he was looking for near the town’s heart: a teahouse, its sagging roof propped by weathered beams. The sign read Jade Leaf, though the paint was peeling. Inside, the air was thick with tobacco smoke and the murmur of low voices. Luochen slipped through the bead curtain, taking a seat in the corner where the shadows pooled deepest. A serving girl shuffled over, her eyes dull with boredom.

“Tea,” he said, voice rough from disuse. She nodded and shuffled off, leaving him to scan the room.

The patrons were a rough lot—mercenaries, gamblers, drifters like him. A table of card players argued over a pile of copper coins, their laughter sharp and mean. An old man in a patched robe nursed a cup, muttering to himself. At the far end, a burly figure in a fur-lined cloak leaned close to a thinner companion, their words too soft to catch. Luochen’s gut tightened. The cloak bore a faint red stitch near the hem—a serpent’s tail.

He kept his head down as the girl returned with a chipped cup and a steaming pot. “Two coppers,” she mumbled. He slid the coins across the table, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword beneath the cloth. The Bao men hadn’t noticed him yet. He poured the tea, letting the steam warm his face, and listened.

“—Tian’s headed north,” the thin one was saying, his voice a nasal whine. “Some big meeting with the clans. Zheng’s orders.”

The burly one grunted. “Heitu’s just a stop. We move at dusk. Keep your mouth shut ‘til then.”

Luochen’s grip tightened on the cup. Bao Tian, north. A lead, fragile as it was. Heitu was a stopover, meaning Tian might still be close—or already gone. Either way, these two knew more than they should. He’d have to pry it out of them, quiet-like.

He waited until the card game erupted into a shouting match, fists banging on tables. The distraction was perfect. Luochen rose, leaving the tea untouched, and drifted toward the Bao men’s table. His hand hovered near his sword, ready to unwrap it if words failed. He was halfway there when the teahouse door slammed open.

A gust of wind scattered the beads, and every head turned. A woman stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the gray light outside. She wore a dark cloak, hood pulled low, and a bamboo hat that shadowed her face. Twin hilts peeked from her waist—daggers, short and curved. Her presence cut through the noise like a blade, and the room went still.

The burly Bao man sneered, leaning back in his chair. “What’s this? Another stray looking for scraps?”

She didn’t answer. Her head tilted slightly, as if sizing up the room, then she stepped inside, letting the door swing shut. Luochen eased back toward his corner, instincts prickling. She wasn’t Bao Clan—her cloak was plain, no serpent mark—but she carried herself like someone who knew how to kill. Trouble, maybe. Or an opportunity.

The thin Bao man chuckled nervously. “Ignore her, Deng. Probably some farmer’s wife lost her way.”

Deng, the burly one, wasn’t convinced. He stood, cracking his knuckles, and lumbered toward her. “Hey, girl. You deaf? This ain’t a place for you.”

She stopped near the center of the room, hand resting lightly on one dagger. “I’m passing through,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Leave me be.”

Deng grinned, showing yellowed teeth. “Passing through, huh? Let’s see what you’re hiding under that hood.” He reached for her, meaty fingers outstretched.

Luochen tensed, ready to move, but she was faster. Her hand flicked up, dagger flashing free, and Deng’s wrist spurted blood. He roared, stumbling back as the blade nicked his arm—not deep, just enough to warn. The teahouse erupted. Card players scrambled for cover, the old man ducked under his table, and the serving girl shrieked, dropping a tray.

The thin Bao man leapt up, drawing a short sword. “You’ll pay for that, bitch!”

She pivoted, second dagger in hand, and met his charge with a blur of steel. The blades clashed once, twice, then she ducked low and slashed his thigh. He crumpled, howling, as she spun toward Deng again. The big man had recovered, pulling a cleaver-like blade from his belt. He swung hard, aiming to split her skull, but she rolled aside, the weapon splintering a table instead.

Luochen watched, impressed despite himself. She was quick, precise—trained, not just lucky. But two against one, even wounded, was a gamble. And he needed those men alive for answers.

He stepped forward, unwrapping his sword as Deng lunged again. The woman parried, her daggers locking against the cleaver, but the thin man was crawling toward a fallen sword, blood trailing behind him. Luochen made his choice. He kicked the weapon away, planting a boot on the thin man’s back.

“Stay down,” he growled, then turned as Deng bellowed and charged the woman anew.

She sidestepped, but the cleaver grazed her cloak, tearing the fabric. Luochen moved in, sword slashing low to catch Deng’s leg. The big man stumbled, cursing, and the woman finished it—her dagger found his throat in a swift, silent thrust. Deng gurgled, collapsing in a heap, and the teahouse fell quiet again.

The thin man whimpered under Luochen’s boot. “Don’t kill me! I—I’ll talk!”

Luochen ignored him for a moment, locking eyes with the woman. She straightened, daggers still in hand, her face half-hidden by the hat. Up close, he caught a glimpse of sharp cheekbones and a scar tracing her jaw. Her gaze was cold, unreadable.

“You didn’t have to step in,” she said, sheathing one blade.

“You didn’t have to kill him,” Luochen shot back, nodding at Deng’s corpse. “I needed him breathing.”

She shrugged, a faint twitch of her lips. “He didn’t give me much choice.” She glanced at the thin man, then back to Luochen. “What’s he to you?”

“Information,” Luochen said curtly. “Bao Clan business.”

Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of something—anger? recognition?—crossing her shadowed face. Before he could press, she turned toward the door. “Trust is a luxury I don’t afford. Deal with him yourself.”

“Wait—” Luochen started, but she was already moving, cloak billowing as she slipped through the beads and into the street. He cursed under his breath, torn between chasing her and the squirming scout at his feet.

He hauled the thin man up by the collar, slamming him against the wall. The teahouse patrons shrank back, pretending not to see. “Bao Tian,” Luochen snarled. “Where’s he going?”

“North!” the man gasped, blood staining his lips. “Some clan meet—three days from now, at Yanshan Pass! That’s all I know, I swear!”

Luochen tightened his grip, then let the man drop, limp and sobbing. Yanshan Pass. A name, a direction. It was enough for now. He stepped over the bodies, ignoring the stares, and pushed out into the street.

The woman was gone, swallowed by the crowd. Luochen adjusted his hat, the weight of his sword a steady comfort at his side. Heitu had given him a lead—and a mystery. That woman, whoever she was, had a grudge of her own. He’d seen it in her eyes, felt it in her steel. Their paths would cross again. He was sure of it.

For now, though, the road north called. Bao Tian was out there, and Luochen’s blade was thirsty. He set off, a drifter in a world of dust and blood, the promise of vengeance burning brighter than the sun overhead.