The wind was sharp in the northern trade district of Yuqian City, slicing through market tents like invisible blades. Smoke drifted from the broken remains of a caravan, splinters of crates and spilled tea leaves scattered across the cobbled street. Somewhere, a bell clanged in alarm—but it was too late. The damage was done.
Amid the chaos, a figure cloaked in midnight blue darted between alleys like a living shadow, breath shallow and precise. Her steps were soundless despite the boots slick with blood and dust.
Sitori Feiyue had long stopped counting the assassins on her trail.
She pressed her back against the cold wall of a dye shop, the scent of crushed indigo sharp and cloying in her nostrils. Blood—some of it hers, most of it not—spattered the sleeve of her robe like wilted petals. Her fingers flexed at her sides, the ache of recent strikes dulled by adrenaline. Her lips curled into the faintest smirk as she peered around the corner. Still quiet. That was never a good sign.
They were getting better.
She pulled the hood of her cloak tighter, concealing the soft glint of silver-white hair and the faint twitch of fox ears beneath her glamour. Her illusions would hold—barely—but the scent of blood on her skin might give her away. She slipped into the crowd with the fluidity of a rumor, moving like ink bleeding through parchment.
Her ears flicked at the sound of hurried footsteps behind her. Three. No—four. Light steps, padded, moving with military rhythm. They kept their distance, careful not to draw attention. Clever little shadows.
Her fingers closed around the charm at her waist. Smoke bomb? Flash rune? Distraction bell? No—not yet. She could still use the crowd.
A commotion erupted near the fruit vendor's stall ahead. Someone bumped into a stack of baskets. Oranges tumbled like coins onto the street. Feiyue ducked beneath an outstretched tarp—
"Lady! You dropped your fruit!"
The voice was far too cheerful for a scene where blood might soon paint the cobblestones.
She turned.
He was tall, wearing robes patched in a dozen places, his grin wide and slightly crooked. A skewer of candied hawthorn dangled from his mouth like a cigar. He had the look of someone who knew trouble and shook hands with it daily.
He held out an apple that very clearly wasn't hers.
Sitori Feiyue didn't miss the twitch of his eyes to her left—where the assassins had just turned the corner. She didn't miss the way his other hand was pressing a small rune into the stone under his sleeve.
Interesting.
"Thanks," she purred, accepting the apple with a lazy flick of her fingers. The crowd surged around them, a living tide of voices and footsteps. She spun around and bumped into him—accidentally-on-purpose. Their bodies twisted through the throng like dancers in a street opera, the assassins' line of sight broken for a heartbeat.
A heartbeat was all he needed.
The ground beneath them erupted with a bright flash, smoke bursting upward in a swirl of silver mist. Screams echoed. The pair vanished into the chaos, swallowed by confusion and flickering light.
When the smoke cleared, the assassins stood coughing and cursing, blades drawn too late. One of them staggered forward and stepped on a pressure rune hidden in the stone. A net of threads snapped upward, yanking him into the air like a marionette.
Another assassin's blade turned on his ally mid-fight, eyes glazed over in confusion. He stabbed before realizing what he was doing. Blood sprayed. The two remaining hunters froze.
"Is that—curse fog?" one hissed.
"Too late," another spat before a dart lodged into his neck. He crumpled.
Two rooftops away, Sitori Feiyue moved like a shadow, following the strange man across tiles slick with rain and soot. Her steps were soundless, her balance perfect. He glanced back and waggled his eyebrows at her, as if they were out for an evening stroll.
She rolled her eyes, but followed.
When they finally stopped at the edge of a crumbling bell tower, he plopped down with a content sigh and fished another skewer of candied fruit from his sleeve.
"That was some neat footwork," he said, mouth half full. "You always run from men like that, or am I just special?"
Feiyue regarded him with cool indifference. "Who are you?"
"Me?" He stood and gave a dramatic bow. "The one and only Chu Yunzheng, master of chaos, destroyer of silence, lover of snacks. And possibly wanted in three counties for borrowing chickens without permission."
She didn't laugh, but her lips twitched.
"You didn't have to help me."
"I didn't. You were doing great on your own—those guys almost had their heads chopped off without my help."
"Why?"
"I like trouble," he said with a shrug. "And you, Miss Mystery, are dripping in it."
A pause hung between them, filled only by the distant tolling of a broken bell. Then she turned, beginning to descend the rooftop.
"Hey!" he called after her. "You haven't even told me your name!"
She glanced over her shoulder, fox eyes gleaming beneath the hood.
"You don't need it," she said. "We won't meet again."
But fate had other plans.
That night, rain poured over Yuqian City, washing blood off the streets but not from memory. Thunder rolled overhead like a warning drum. In a flickering candlelit room behind a tavern, Feiyue unrolled a damp parchment, her fingers stained with ash and ink.
The scroll bore a smudged sigil: a broken crescent over a rising flame. The same mark found on the assassins' necks.
She stared at it for a long time, her lips parted slightly in disbelief. Then, almost too quietly to hear, she whispered:
"Hu Clan..."
A creak at the window.
She spun, blade in hand—only to find a chicken staring at her from the sill.
A chicken with a scroll tied to its leg.
She plucked the note and unrolled it with a resigned sigh.
If you're going to die, at least leave me the rest of your fruit. —Chu Yunzheng
Feiyue rolled her eyes. But this time, she smiled.
Just a little.