The silence in the corridor was deceptive. Too dense. Too still.
Lan Boxiao stood just outside the chamber, her blade drawn, its steel reflecting the jittery flames of the torches. Her breath was calm, but her heart wasn’t. Behind her, she could still hear the wet gasps of Xu Moyao, the frantic whispers of Li Wuxin. Life teetered there, on the edge of a blade far more delicate than hers.

But she didn’t look back.
She couldn’t.

She had said the words: "I’ll cover your back."
And for once in her life, she meant it without calculation. Without a second motive. Not for glory. Not for survival. But because it mattered.

This mattered.

The clang of boots echoed in the distance. Steel scraped stone. Shouts barked commands. The enemy was coming, drawn by the sound of chains.

Lan Boxiao stepped forward, into the corridor, into the dark.

The first soldier turned the corner, and for a heartbeat, they both froze.

He wasn’t expecting her.

Certainly not someone like her.

She moved before he could shout, a blur of motion and silver. Her blade whispered as it sliced through the air, then through his throat. A fine arc of blood painted the wall, and he crumpled without a sound.

His body hadn’t yet hit the ground when she turned to the next.

Two more came. She danced between them like wind through reeds, her steps light, her body balanced on the balls of her feet. The first’s sword met hers, sparks flaring in the gloom. She turned with it, used his momentum against him, ducked low, and drove her blade into his ribs.

A scream tried to leave his mouth, but her elbow crushed his windpipe before it could.

The second slashed clumsily, panic in his movements. She stepped aside, fluid, almost graceful, and brought the hilt of her sword crashing down on the base of his neck. He folded.

A fourth. A fifth.

By now, the others were shouting. She could hear them calling for reinforcements, barking orders. Their footsteps grew louder.

She didn’t retreat.

She stepped into the open hallway, surrounded by blood and bodies, and waited.

Her blade gleamed. Her stance relaxed. But there was a storm in her eyes.

They came at her as one, a squad of soldiers armored in black and red, blades drawn, faces masked. They were trained. Disciplined. Fast.

She couldn’t afford to make a mistake

Lan Boxiao moved like smoke, like music. Every motion was calculated, every breath precise. Dress fluttering like the petals of a dying flower. Her swords were not just a weapon—it was an extension of her will, an instrument in a deadly waltz.

A blade passed her cheek, so close it kissed the skin. She let it.

Three surrounded her.

She vaulted off the wall, twisted mid-air, and landed behind them. One didn’t even turn before she slit his throat. Another lunged too late

Her blade pierced through his side, and she yanked it free without breaking stride.

The third turned, screaming something, too slow.

She ran him through, then kicked him off her blade.

Blood soaked the floor. Bodies crumpled around her like discarded chess pieces.

Still, more came.

She should’ve been tired. But she wasn’t.

Not yet.

Lan Boxiao moved with an elegance that was terrifying. Her blades sang, an aria of death. Soldiers fell one by one, their movements sluggish compared to hers. She was too fast. Too fluid. And in the eye of her storm, she found something strange.

Peace.

In all her years, mercenary, assassin, spy, she had never fought for anything real. Every kill had been a job. Every wound, a transaction.

Her name whispered in fear, her shadow a price.

But this—this was different.

She was buying time. Not for herself. For them. For Li Wuxin, kneeling in blood and hope. For Xu Moyao, fighting to breathe. She had nothing to gain. And for the first time in her life, she didn’t care.

It felt good.

It felt right.

Her body began to slow. Her breath shortened.

A soldier grazed her arm—first blood.

Another nicked her thigh. She staggered, just a step.

They saw it. Their eyes lit up. She could hear it in their cries: "She bleeds!"

They surged.

She met them head-on.

The battle became raw, savage. No more grace. Only grit.

She ducked under a spear, shoved the shaft aside, rammed her blade up into the attacker’s chin. Another tried to flank her—she caught his wrist, twisted, broke it, took his dagger, and threw it into the next man’s eye.

Her sword grew heavy. Her legs burned.

But she kept going.

She didn’t know how many she had killed.

Ten? Fifteen?

Their bodies littered the hall like fallen statues. Her own limbs trembled now. Blood—not all of it theirs—streaked her cheeks, her throat, her fingers.

She leaned against the wall, panting.

And yet… her mind was clear. Clearer than it had ever been.

She thought of her old master.

None of it mattered anymore.

This was the only thing that had ever felt honest.

Lan Boxiao looked up.

The ceiling was cracked, stones chipped, torches flickering low.

And then, something strange happened.

A wind brushed her cheek. Cold. Unnatural. She turned—behind her, the chamber door remained closed, the sounds inside muffled.

…She leaned against the wall, panting.

And yet… her mind was clear. Clearer than it had ever been.

This was the only thing that had ever felt honest.

Lan Boxiao looked up.

The ceiling was cracked, stones chipped, torches flickering low.

And then, something strange happened.

A wind brushed her cheek. Cold. Unnatural. She turned—behind her, the chamber door remained closed, the sounds inside muffled.

Then, silence.

Real silence. Not the charged stillness before a clash. Not the shallow hush between screams. But a final, settled quiet.

No more footsteps. No more orders shouted into blood-soaked air. Just the crackle of torches and the slow dripping of something—blood or water, she couldn’t tell—onto stone.

Lan Boxiao waited a moment longer, blade lowered.

Nothing.

The last of them had fallen. Or run. Either way, she had done what she came to do.

She exhaled.

Not in relief—she didn’t feel relief. Just… emptiness. A great, yawning stillness inside her that mirrored the hallway.

Her knees gave slightly. She stumbled toward the door she had guarded with steel and will, then let herself slide down to the floor, her back against the ancient wood. The metal banding dug into her shoulders, and she welcomed the bite. It grounded her.

She let her sword fall beside her with a dull clink.

And then—finally—she let herself breathe.

Lan Boxiao looked at her hands. Covered in blood. Fingers trembling, but not from pain. From something deeper.

And yet… as she stared down at the ruined corridor, at the men she had killed—some barely more than boys—she felt it creeping in.

The cost.

Not to them. To her.

She remembered the boy with the crooked helmet. He had hesitated. She hadn’t.

She saw again the man whose scream she had silenced with her elbow. His eyes had stayed open long after he’d stopped moving.

She had promised to cover their backs. And she had.

But as the adrenaline ebbed from her veins, what was left behind wasn’t pride.

It was weight.

So many faces.

She drew her knees up slightly, rested her arms on them, and tilted her head back against the door.

She should feel righteous. She should feel like a protector, a guardian.

Instead, she just felt tired.

And haunted.

Just a girl who had once dreamed of silence for different reasons.

Behind the door, she heard a voice—Li Wuxin, soft and broken, speaking to Xu Moyao. There was relief there. Gratitude. Maybe even joy.

Lan Boxiao closed her eyes.

They were safe.

That should be enough.

But in the cold quiet of the corridor, surrounded by the dead, she wondered

Was it?

She stayed there, holding her breath, waiting, listening for the echo of a voice, a soldier rushing toward the exit. But the silence persisted. No sign of pursuit. The forest seemed to swallow every sound, making the air almost suffocatingly still. She could feel the weight of time stretching, each passing moment could tip the scale between escape and capture. Yet, nothing. No sign that their flight had been noticed.

Lan Boxiao straightened slowly. A final glance over, she allowed her body to relax slightly, though every muscle remained tense. There was no immediate danger. She couldn’t hear the soldiers chasing them anymore, their pursuit fading into the night.

She took a step forward toward the door of the room where Li Wuxin and Xu Moyao were.

When she entered, Li Wuxin looked up at her, his face marked by exhaustion, but there was a glimmer of relief in his eyes.

Lan Boxiao stood in the doorway, her voice low but firm, breaking the silence that had settled.

“We should move.” She paused briefly, her gaze resting on Xu Moyao. “They haven’t reacted yet, but it won’t last. We can’t afford to stay here much longer.”

Li Wuxin nodded, a sigh of relief mingling with the new tension that was settling in.

“You’re right,” he replied, his voice hoarse, tired, but resolute. “We can’t take any more chances.”

Lan Boxiao glanced at them for a moment, a hint of compassion in her eyes, but she said no more.

She knew time was against them.