The sun hung low over Heitu, painting the rooftops gold and casting long shadows across the muddy streets. Luochen moved with purpose, his straw hat tilted against the glare, his sword still wrapped but ready at his hip. Yanshan Pass was three days’ ride north, a narrow chokehold between mountains where clans brokered power with blood and coin. Bao Tian would be there, the thin man had said, and Luochen meant to catch him before he slipped away again.

But first, Heitu had one more secret to yield. The Bao Clan ran a gambling den on the town’s eastern edge, a festering pit called the Lotus House. Whispers in the teahouse had pointed him there—Bao Tian’s men used it as a waystation, a place to launder silver and trade rumors. If Luochen could infiltrate it, he might find a map, a name, something to sharpen his hunt. He’d shed blood for less.

The Lotus House squatted behind a row of crooked warehouses, its red lanterns swaying in the evening breeze. The air stank of stale wine and sweat, the buzz of voices spilling through cracked shutters. Luochen slipped into an alley beside it, pressing himself against the damp wood. He unwrapped his sword, the blade catching a sliver of fading light, and tucked the cloth into his belt. No more hiding.

He climbed a stack of crates to a second-story window, its latch rusted and loose. A quick jab with his dagger popped it open, and he swung inside, landing soft on a creaking floor. The room was dim, cluttered with broken chairs and dust-caked shelves—a storage space, empty for now. Below, the clamor of the den rose through the boards: dice rattling, men shouting, the clink of coins. Luochen crept to the door, easing it ajar.

A hallway stretched before him, lit by flickering oil lamps. At its end, a staircase spiraled down to the main floor. He moved silently, boots whispering against the wood, and paused at the top of the stairs. The gambling hall sprawled below—tables crowded with players, a haze of smoke curling around the rafters. Most were locals, their faces flushed with drink, but a knot of men near the back stood out. Their cloaks bore the Bao Clan’s red serpent, and their hands rested on weapons, not cards.

Luochen’s pulse quickened. One of them—a wiry figure with a pockmarked face—leaned over a table, scribbling on a scrap of parchment. Orders? A route? Whatever it was, Luochen needed it. He descended the stairs, keeping to the shadows, his hat pulled low. The crowd was his shield, a sea of noise and motion to mask his approach.

He was halfway across the floor when a shout cut through the din. “You! Straw hat!”

Luochen froze, hand drifting to his sword. A Bao thug with a shaved head and a spiked mace stood from a table, squinting through the smoke. The others turned, hands on hilts, and the wiry one with the parchment straightened, eyes narrowing.

“Know that face,” the shaved-head thug growled. “It’s the bastard from the teahouse. Deng’s killer.”

The wiry one smirked, tucking the parchment into his sleeve. “Luochen, right? Bao Tian’s little ghost. You’ve got guts showing up here.”

Luochen shed the hat, letting it fall to the floor. No point in pretense now. “Tell me where he is,” he said, voice low and hard, “and you might walk out of here.”

Laughter erupted from the Bao men, sharp and mocking. The shaved-head thug hefted his mace. “Five of us, one of you. Bad odds, ghost.”

“Odds don’t matter,” Luochen said, drawing his sword with a slow rasp. “Only steel does.”

The room tensed, gamblers scrambling back as the Bao men fanned out. Luochen shifted his stance, blade gleaming in the lamplight. The shaved-head thug charged first, mace swinging in a brutal arc. Luochen ducked low, the spikes whistling past his ear, and slashed upward. His sword bit through leather and flesh, opening the man’s gut. Blood sprayed, hot and slick, and the thug crumpled with a wet gasp.

The others roared, closing in. A spearman thrust from the left, aiming for Luochen’s ribs. He parried, steel shrieking, and kicked a stool into the man’s legs. The spearman stumbled, and Luochen drove his blade through his chest, twisting it free as the body fell. Two down.

The wiry one barked orders, circling with a curved saber, while the remaining two—a hulking brute with an axe and a lean fighter with twin knives—attacked in tandem. Luochen spun, blocking the axe with a jarring clang, then rolled as the knives slashed at his back. The blades grazed his cloak, tearing fabric, but he came up swinging. His sword caught the knife-man’s arm, severing muscle, and a second stroke took his throat.

The brute roared, axe descending like a thunderbolt. Luochen leapt aside, the blade splintering the floorboards, and lunged inside the man’s guard. His sword punched through the brute’s chest, scraping ribs, and the giant toppled, shaking the room.

The wiry one hissed, saber flashing as he struck. Luochen met it blow for blow, sparks flying in the dim light. The man was fast, skilled—better than the others—but Luochen was relentless. He pressed forward, forcing the wiry one back until his heel caught a fallen chair. The stumble was brief, but enough. Luochen’s blade sliced through the man’s wrist, sending the saber—and the hand holding it—clattering to the floor. The Bao thug screamed, clutching the stump, and Luochen kicked him onto his back.

“Where’s Bao Tian?” he snarled, sword tip at the man’s throat.

“Yanshan Pass!” the wiry one spat, blood bubbling on his lips. “Three days—clan summit! That’s all I—”

A dagger sprouted from his chest, silencing him mid-word. Luochen whirled, blade up, as the crowd gasped. The woman from the teahouse stood atop the stairs, her cloak thrown back, another dagger gleaming in her hand. Xiaoyu—she’d never given her name, but it fit her somehow, sharp and fleeting as rain. Her bamboo hat was gone, revealing dark hair tied tight and that scar along her jaw, stark against her pale skin.

“Sloppy,” she called, descending the steps with a predator’s grace. “You let him talk too long.”

Luochen lowered his sword, breathing hard. “He was mine to finish.”

“He was a liability,” she countered, stopping a few paces away. Her eyes flicked over the bodies, then back to him. “Bao Clan?”

He nodded, wiping blood from his blade on a dead man’s cloak. “You’ve got a habit of showing up where there’s trouble.”

“Trouble finds me,” she said, sheathing her dagger. “Or maybe we’re chasing the same shadow.”

Luochen studied her, the air thick with unspoken questions. “Yanshan Pass,” he said finally. “That’s where I’m headed. You?”

Her lips tightened, a flicker of something raw crossing her face. “Same road, different ghosts.” She turned toward the door, but Luochen stepped into her path.

“If you’re after them, we could use each other,” he said. “I don’t trust you, but I don’t need to. Just steel.”

Xiaoyu paused, her gaze cold and searching. “You don’t know what I want, swordsman. And I don’t share my fights.”

“Then why’d you throw that dagger?” he pressed. “You could’ve let him gut me.”

She didn’t answer right away, her hand resting on her remaining dagger. Then, almost too soft to hear, she said, “Maybe I hate them more than I hate questions.”

Before he could reply, shouts echoed from the street—reinforcements, drawn by the chaos. Xiaoyu cursed under her breath and bolted for a side door. Luochen grabbed the wiry man’s corpse, rifling his sleeve. The parchment was there, smeared with blood but legible: a rough map, Yanshan Pass circled in ink. He stuffed it into his belt and ran after her.

They burst into an alley, the night air biting after the den’s stench. Torchlight flared behind them as Bao men spilled from the Lotus House, blades drawn. Xiaoyu darted left, Luochen right, then they converged at a low wall. She vaulted it with a flick of her cloak, and he followed, landing hard in a courtyard strewn with crates.

“Move!” she hissed, sprinting toward a gap in the warehouses. Luochen matched her pace, the shouts growing fainter as they wove through Heitu’s maze. They didn’t stop until the town’s edge loomed—a stretch of open road flanked by scrub and shadow.

Xiaoyu slowed, chest heaving, and shot him a sidelong glance. “You’re still here.”

“You’re still useful,” he said, catching his breath. He pulled the map from his belt, holding it out. “Yanshan Pass. Three days. We go together, or we don’t. Your call.”

She stared at the map, then at him, her scar catching the moonlight. “Fine,” she said at last. “But when we get there, my fight’s my own.”

“Fair enough,” Luochen replied, folding the map away. “Let’s just live that long.”

They set off into the dark, two blades bound by blood and silence, the road north stretching like a promise—or a noose. Behind them, the Lotus House burned in their wake, its shadows curling into the night.