The road north from Heitu stretched like a scar across the land, flanked by rolling hills and patches of wild grass. By midday, the sun burned high, its heat pressing down on Luochen and Xiaoyu as they walked in silence. Dust clung to their boots, and the air hummed with the drone of cicadas. They’d left the town behind hours ago, the smoke of the Lotus House fading into memory, but the weight of what they’d done—and what lay ahead—hung between them like a blade waiting to fall.

Luochen kept his eyes on the horizon, one hand resting on his sword. The map from the gambling den was tucked against his chest, its rough lines promising Yanshan Pass in two days if they kept pace. Bao Tian would be there, surrounded by allies, plotting whatever schemes the Bao Clan cooked in their viper’s nest. Luochen’s fingers tightened on the hilt. Two days, and he’d have his revenge—or his grave.

Xiaoyu walked a step behind, her cloak pulled tight despite the heat, her daggers glinting at her waist. She’d said little since agreeing to travel together, her face a mask of sharp angles and guarded eyes. Luochen didn’t push. He didn’t trust her, not fully, but her steel had saved him once already. That was enough for now.

The road dipped into a shallow valley, where a bamboo grove rose like a green wall, its stalks swaying in the faint breeze. Luochen slowed, squinting at the shadows within. “Good place for an ambush,” he muttered.

Xiaoyu nodded, her hand brushing one dagger. “Or a rest. We’ve been moving since dawn.”

He glanced at her, weighing the risk. The Bao Clan might’ve sent riders after them, but the grove’s edge was quiet—no hoofbeats, no glint of steel. His shoulder throbbed, the stitches pulling under his sweat-soaked robe, and his legs felt leaden. She was right. They couldn’t run forever without breaking.

“Fine,” he said. “But we stay sharp.”

They veered off the road, pushing through the bamboo until the stalks closed around them like a curtain. The air cooled, thick with the scent of earth and green wood. Luochen found a clearing near a trickling stream, its banks mossy and soft. He dropped his pack, easing onto a flat stone, and Xiaoyu settled across from him, her back to a bamboo cluster.

She pulled a waterskin from her cloak, drinking deep before tossing it to him. He caught it, nodding thanks, and let the cold water soothe his parched throat. For a moment, they sat in silence, the stream’s murmur blending with the rustle of leaves overhead.

“You’re reckless,” Xiaoyu said at last, breaking the quiet. Her voice was flat, but her eyes flicked to the bloodstains on his sleeve. “That fight in the den—five against one. You could’ve died.”

Luochen shrugged, setting the waterskin down. “Didn’t.”

“But you might next time,” she pressed, leaning forward. “What’s driving you? Revenge doesn’t care if you bleed out chasing it.”

He met her gaze, steady and unyielding. “Bao Tian killed someone I loved. Meiqi. Slaughtered her like she was nothing. I’ll cut him down, or I’ll die trying. That’s all there is.”

Xiaoyu’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in her eyes—recognition, maybe, or a shadow of her own pain. She looked away, fingers tracing the scar on her jaw. “Love’s a dangerous thing to fight for,” she said softly. “It blinds you.”

“And you?” Luochen asked, voice low. “What’s your fight? You hate the Bao Clan as much as I do. Why?”

She stiffened, her hand dropping to her dagger. For a moment, he thought she’d bolt—or draw on him. Then she exhaled, slow and ragged, and stared at the stream as if it held answers.

“My family,” she said finally. “The Bao Clan burned our village years ago. Took everything—my parents, my home. I was sixteen, hiding in the fields when they came. Watched the flames from a ditch while my mother screamed.” Her voice cracked, just for a heartbeat, then hardened again. “Bao Zheng gave the order. Tian was just his dog, swinging the blade.”

Luochen listened, the words sinking into him like stones. Bao Zheng—the clan’s head, a name whispered in fear across Jianyun. Meiqi’s death had been Tian’s work, but Zheng’s shadow loomed larger, a puppetmaster pulling strings. He leaned back, studying Xiaoyu’s profile. The scar, the daggers, the coldness—it all made sense now.

“So you’re after Zheng,” he said. “Not Tian.”

She nodded, eyes still on the water. “Tian’s a step. Zheng’s the heart. I’ll rip it out, whatever it takes.”

“Even if it kills you?” he asked, echoing her earlier jab.

Her lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Revenge is all I have left. Sound familiar?”

He grunted, conceding the point. They were mirrors in a way—two souls forged in loss, sharpened by hate. But mirrors could crack, and he still didn’t know her edges. “We’re on the same road,” he said. “Yanshan Pass. Tian’s there, maybe Zheng too. We could do more together than apart.”

Xiaoyu turned to him, her gaze piercing. “I told you, my fight’s my own. I’ll walk with you, kill with you, but don’t think it’s trust. It’s convenience.”

“Call it what you want,” Luochen said, standing to stretch his aching limbs. “Just don’t throw a dagger at me when I’m not looking.”

She smirked, a rare glint of humor. “No promises.”

He paced to the stream, splashing water on his face, letting it drip down his neck. The cold sharpened his senses, chasing off the fatigue. Xiaoyu joined him, kneeling to refill her waterskin. Her movements were precise, almost delicate, a contrast to the steel in her hands. He caught himself watching her, then looked away. Meiqi’s ghost lingered too close for stray thoughts.

“We should move soon,” he said, shaking the water from his hands. “Bao men might’ve tracked us.”

She nodded, capping the skin. “There’s a ridge ahead—good vantage point. We can scout from there.”

They gathered their gear, the bamboo whispering as they pushed back toward the road. But before they reached it, a rustle—not wind, too deliberate—stopped them cold. Luochen drew his sword, Xiaoyu her daggers, and they turned as one.

Figures emerged from the stalks—three men, cloaked in drab gray, no serpent marks but armed to the teeth. Bandits, likely, drawn by the chaos in Heitu. The leader, a gaunt man with a notched longsword, grinned through a tangle of beard.

“Nice spot you picked,” he rasped. “Hand over your gear, and maybe we don’t gut you.”

Luochen stepped forward, blade low. “Walk away. Last chance.”

The bandit laughed, signaling his men. One carried a spiked club, the other a short spear. They fanned out, cutting off the clearing’s exits. Xiaoyu shifted beside Luochen, her stance loose but coiled, ready to strike.

“Three on two,” the leader said, advancing. “Drop the steel, or we take it from your corpses.”

Luochen didn’t wait. He lunged, sword slashing for the leader’s chest. The man parried, metal clanging, and the fight exploded. Xiaoyu darted left, daggers flashing as the club-wielder swung at her. She ducked, slicing his calf, and he howled, staggering back. The spearman thrust at Luochen, forcing him to twist aside, the point grazing his arm.

He cursed, pivoting to lock blades with the leader again. The bandit was strong, his longsword heavy, but Luochen was faster. He feinted high, then slashed low, cutting through the man’s thigh. Blood sprayed, and the leader dropped to one knee, swinging wildly. Luochen blocked, then drove his sword through the man’s shoulder, pinning him to the ground.

Xiaoyu danced with the club-wielder, her daggers a blur. She parried a blow, wood splintering against steel, and stabbed upward, catching his throat. He gurgled, collapsing, and she spun toward the spearman just as he lunged at Luochen’s back.

“Down!” she shouted, and Luochen dropped flat. Her dagger flew, burying itself in the spearman’s eye. He screamed, spear clattering, and Luochen finished him with a thrust from below, blood pooling in the moss.

The leader groaned, clutching his shoulder, still alive. Luochen yanked his sword free and loomed over him. “Who sent you?”

“No one,” the bandit wheezed. “Saw you leave town… thought you’d be easy…”

Xiaoyu retrieved her dagger, wiping it clean. “He’s telling the truth. Just scavengers.”

Luochen nodded, then ended it with a swift cut. The clearing fell silent, save for the stream and the wind. They stood over the bodies, breathing hard, a shared glance passing between them—no words, just understanding.

“We need to go,” Xiaoyu said, sheathing her blades. “More might come.”

Luochen cleaned his sword, the bamboo casting long shadows as the sun dipped lower. “Ridge, then. Let’s see what’s ahead.”

They left the grove behind, the bloodstains fading into the earth, and climbed toward the ridge as dusk settled. Below, the road stretched north, a ribbon of dirt and danger. Above, the first stars pierced the sky, cold and distant, watching two drifters bound by vengeance and the fragile thread of survival.