The rogue's sneer was a blemish on the clean morning air. He lunged, not with any form Chenwei recognized, but with the brutish momentum of a falling rock. Chenwei met the attack with the first defensive stance of the Clear Sky Sect, the steel of his sword a solid, ringing answer to the rogue's wild assault. The force of the impact jarred his arm, but his footing was perfect. He held his ground.
The man recoiled, then kicked a cloud of dirt and gravel directly at Chenwei's face.
Chenwei jerked back, a curse catching in his throat as grit stung his eyes. He blinked furiously, relying on his training to move, his sword a shield against the follow-up strike he could hear whistling through the air. This isn't an honor duel, he thought, a hot wave of contempt rising in him. It's a street brawl.
"You fight like a rat," Chenwei bit out, his eyes clearing.
"And you fight like a pampered boy who's never had to kill for a meal," the rogue shot back. He feinted high, and Chenwei's blade rose instinctively to parry. In that same instant, a glint of metal flashed from the man's other hand. A dart.
The air hissed past Chenwei's ear. He twisted his body, the dart embedding itself in a tree behind him. A hidden weapon. Utterly without honor. He saw the rogue's strategy now—not to win, but to create a single, chaotic opening for a coward's blow. He would not give him another. Feigning a stumble, Chenwei exposed his left side for a fraction of a second.
The rogue took the bait. He lunged forward with a greedy, triumphant roar, his blade aimed for Chenwei's ribs. Chenwei pivoted. The rogue's momentum carried him past, his side now open and unprotected. Chenwei's own blade moved in a clean, disciplined arc, biting deep into the man's shoulder.
A raw scream echoed through the gorge as the rogue collapsed, his sword clattering to the stones. Chenwei stood over him, his chest heaving, the clean lines of the fight's conclusion bringing a grim sense of order. He had acted. He had won.
Then, another scream, this one of pure anguish, shattered the stillness.
Xinyi shoved past Lianyi, her face a mask of horror, and fell to her knees in the dirt beside the wounded man. Chenwei stared, his mind refusing to process the scene. She cradled the brigand's head, her tears staining his bloody shoulder. The public shame of it, the absolute loss of face for Lianyi, was staggering.
"Pathetic," the veiled handmaiden's voice cut through the air, sharp with contempt. "You weren't even worth the silver I paid you."
The words struck Chenwei with the force of a physical blow. Silver. He had thought this was a matter of misguided passion, but it was nothing more than a sordid transaction.
Xinyi looked up, her expression shattered. "You were paid?" she asked the rogue, her voice a choked whisper. "Was any of it real? Did you ever love me?"
The rogue, grimacing through his pain, met her gaze. "It was for the money at first," he admitted. "But I came to love you, Xinyi. Truly. The money… it was for us. To start a new life."
Xinyi let out a sob, a sound of both heartbreak and relief. She leaned down, kissing his forehead. "I forgive you. I love you."
Chenwei looked at his friend. Lianyi stood frozen, the color drained from his face, his mouth slightly parted as if he had forgotten how to breathe. He looked hollowed out, a pristine vase cracked from top to bottom. A flicker of pity moved through Chenwei, but it was quickly consumed by a cold disdain for the scene itself. He could have understood a noble, tragic love that defied a betrothal. He could have respected the silent suffering of an honorable woman trapped in a vow she could not keep. This open, messy display of emotion, born from a paid contract, had no dignity. It was a vulgar spectacle.
The fake-handmaiden laughed, a sound as pleasant as grinding stone. "How romantic," she sneered. "Then you can all die together."
She crushed a talisman in her hand. A foul miasma of green-black smoke, smelling of grave dirt and decay, erupted from her fist. It writhed and coalesced into a swarm of hunched, insectoid shapes. Their limbs were like shards of smoky glass, and their very presence seemed to warp the air, a wave of spiritual cold washing over Chenwei, making his own Qi feel sluggish and unclean. Where their shadows drifted, the green moss on the stones blackened and crumbled to dust.
"Abomination!" Chenwei roared, moving instinctively to stand before the catatonic Lianyi. He lunged, his blade glowing with righteous energy, and sliced through the lead creature. His sword met no resistance, passing through the smoke as if it were air. The creature swirled and reformed behind him.
He struck again, a flurry of precise cuts, but it was useless. A profound sense of impotence washed over him. His sword, his honor, his entire path of cultivation—all were meaningless against this. It was a magic that did not obey the rules of combat.
"Ah," Wen Yuhan's voice cut through the chaos, and Chenwei turned to see him observing the swarm, not with horror, but with an unnerving, academic curiosity. "The Thirteen Agonies Blight. A fascinatingly cruel ritual."
"What is that?" Chenwei demanded, his own voice tight with a fear he hated.
"To gain the right to invoke this blight," Wen said, his gaze still fixed on the creatures, "the caster must perform a specific sacrifice. Thirteen unblemished children are sealed within a filthy room. They are left to starve, fester, and die of disease in absolute misery. Their final, agonized spirits are what fuel the magic."
The words were spoken with no more emotion than if he were describing the weather. Chenwei recoiled, not just from the image of the atrocity, but from the coldness in its telling. He knows this. He knows the name and the precise method. How?
Wen took a step forward, kneeling to examine the crumbling moss. "A necrotizing agent, then. Systemic. But every system has an antithesis." He closed his eyes. "A humble petition to the Forebear of Spores, the Quiet One Who Consumes Decay… A rampant, unbalanced agent has been introduced. Your balancing influence is requested to restore the natural order of consumption."
No righteous light flared. No explosion of Qi. Instead, a fine, white powder, like frost, began to creep across the decaying stones. It spread in utter silence. As it touched the plague spirits, they convulsed. They let out a high, tearing shriek of pure agony before dissolving into nothing, their corrupt energy consumed by the quiet, relentless mold.
In the sudden stillness, Chenwei saw the fake-handmaiden was gone. He was left in the gorge, his heart pounding. He had won the duel, he had saved Lianyi's life, but he felt no victory.
His gaze snapped to Wen, who was now studying the inert white mold with a look of intense concentration. The chilling logic of a new reality settled into place in Chenwei's mind. The handmaiden was a monster, yes. But her evil was simple, understandable. Wen's calm was not. His knowledge was not. His power was not.
He knew, Chenwei thought, the suspicion a cold fire in his gut. He knew what she was, what she would do. He let her unleash that horror. He let me fight the duel. He let Lianyi's heart be broken. It was all a performance, and Wen was the only one who had never been surprised. He had watched it all, waiting for the precise moment to reveal a power that no one else could counter.
Chenwei's grip on his sword tightened. He had been a fool, thinking the trap was a simple assassination. It was a demonstration. And the monster who had orchestrated it was still standing right in front of him.