A young man awoke from his slumber to the sound of snow bending bamboo outside his window. He straightened his clothes, rose, and pushed open the window. A biting chill greeted him, and the ground was blanketed in pristine white. Another winter had come.
The young man's surname was Li, his given name Qingxiao, and his courtesy name Baizhou. Without hesitation, Li Qingxiao vaulted through the window into the courtyard, where he began practicing a set of martial forms to limber his body. His movements were swift and light, leaving only faint footprints in the snow—no sound of splitting air accompanied his strikes, yet his skill was unmistakable.
After about half an hour, a figure appeared just beyond the waist-high courtyard wall, watching with hands clasped behind their back. Li Qingxiao paid no mind, continuing until he had completed three full cycles of his routine. Only then did he steady his breath, sheathe his energy, and speak:
"Outsider?"
The uninvited guest was a woman clad in violet robes, her beauty striking. Instead of answering, she remarked, "Your forms are interesting. Commonplace, but your foundation is solid."
"I know. No need for you to tell me." Li Qingxiao's tone was far from friendly—cold, even, bordering on outright dismissal.
The woman, accustomed to men softening in her presence, found his indifference rare. Some feigned aloofness as a ploy, but her sharp eyes discerned genuine detachment in this young man.
Undeterred, she flashed a charming smile, her words laced with playful implication. "Care to be friends?"
Li Qingxiao refused outright. "We've never met. What friendship is there to speak of?"
Her smile faltered briefly before she recovered. "We're both disciples of the Daoist Order. May I at least call you 'Brother Daoist'? What should I call you?"
The old imperial court was long gone, replaced by the Daoist Order. The Jade Capital stood where the imperial city once did; the Golden Tower supplanted the court, the Nine Halls replaced the Six Ministries, and Daoist officials governed in place of magistrates. The Grand Master now ruled where emperors once did. Under the Order's reign, all were "Brother Daoist."
Li Qingxiao snapped off a bamboo stalk—three feet long, its broken end sharp as a blade—and held it like a sword. "My surname is Li."
This was a pointless answer. Penglai Island was the Li clan's ancestral home; anyone living here not surnamed Li would be the oddity. She had asked for his name, but he deliberately withheld it.
"Brother Li," the woman conceded, introducing herself. "I am Mei Ning."
Li Qingxiao waved the bamboo stalk dismissively. "By rights, I should call you 'Sister Mei.' But the stench of Fenghuanglinzhou clings to you. Forgive my bluntness—do you even deserve the title 'Daoist'?"
Mei Ning's face darkened.
Li Qingxiao pressed on. "What business does someone from Fenghuanglinzhou's Celestial Gate have on Penglai Island?"
Exposed, Mei Ning's shock was fleeting. A veteran of the jianghu, she quickly masked it with a sultry smile, her eyes glinting as she cooed, "Brother Li, what ever do you mean?"
As she spoke, she patted her chest, her ample curves swaying. But beneath her words lay the subtle art of enchantment—a practiced allure meant to daze most men. Seizing the moment, she flicked her sleeve, releasing a cloud of rainbow-hued mist, which she propelled toward Li Qingxiao with a palm strike.
Simultaneously, she darted to his flank, delicate fingers poised to seal his vital energy channels. If successful, he'd be at her mercy.
Instead, emerald bamboo pierced her abdomen.
Half remained lush green; the other half, jutting from her back, dripped crimson onto the snow below.
Snow reflected red plum blossoms.
Infused with Qi, the bamboo was as lethal as any blade.
Pale and powerless, Mei Ning realized too late that her charms had been wasted—Li Qingxiao hadn't faltered. The mist? He'd held his breath. While she'd been blind in the haze, he'd calmly set his trap.
It wasn't that he'd stabbed her. She'd impaled herself.
Li Qingxiao wasn't some country bumpkin. Raised by the Daoist Order's Hall of Myriad Forms, he'd ascended to the North Star Hall—one of the Nine Halls tasked with purging traitors, gathering intelligence, and safeguarding the Jade Capital.
Like the imperial orphans of old, conscripted into the Feather Forest Guard, Li Qingxiao was the Order's orphan—forged into a ruthless agent.
"The fox reveals its tail," Li Qingxiao mused, releasing the bamboo as Mei Ning staggered back, clutching her wound. "Daring to cause trouble on Penglai Island? Bold."
"You—" Mei Ning gasped, breath failing.
The stoic young man finally smiled—a cold twist of lips. "Thought my isolation made me easy prey? That killing me would give your group a hideout?"
Wobbling, Mei Ning cursed her misjudgment. Of course only a monster would live alone.
Li Qingxiao clenched a fist, advancing. "Talk. Who sent you to provoke the Li clan?"
Bamboo could kill. So could fists.
Wheezing, Mei Ning spat, "We knew whose territory this was. Do you think we'd come without approval from someone high in your clan?"
Li Qingxiao understood. This involved the Li main lineage.
The current Grand Master hailed from the Li clan, but its branches sprawled over millennia. Distant scions like Li Qingxiao might as well have been commoners.
Only the main lineage were true nobility—most dwelling in the Jade Capital, seldom returning to Penglai.
Li Qingxiao sighed. "You have allies. Even if I spare you, they'll silence me. Better to send you ahead—no body buys me time to vanish."
Mei Ning's face twisted. "Kill me, and you die. Spare me, and you die. Either way, you're dead."
Li Qingxiao studied her impassively. "Lose-lose beats lose-win. You first—wait for me on the Yellow Springs Road."
"My people will hunt down everyone you love!" she shrieked.
"Unlucky for you," Li Qingxiao replied flatly. "My parents serve the Supreme Dao Ancestor in the Elysian Fields. No family, no weaknesses. The Order raised me; the Li clan is my kin. Try killing them—if you can. Maybe even the Grand Master."
Despair gripped Mei Ning. A man with nothing to lose was unstoppable.
"Killing's easy," Li Qingxiao mused. "Hiding the body's hard. Good thing I've no neighbors—and this snow. Plum blossoms may lack snow's purity, but snow lacks their fragrance. Fine snow indeed."
Suddenly, he stiffened—a premonition, like sensing a cicada before the wind stirs. He whirled, scanning the surroundings.
Nothing.
Frowning, he wondered if it was his imagination.
Far off, a female Daoist in smoked lenses withdrew her gaze, humming as she strolled away, a plum branch in hand.
She passed an archway inscribed with four characters:
"Peace Without Worry."