The Ninth Courtyard was once a quiet sanctuary nestled behind the western hills of the city—a compound of bamboo pavilions, herbal gardens, and deep wells. To the empire, it was abandoned land. To Ye Qingran, it had become a hidden base.
This was where she brought the broken. Where girls like Zhi Lan first learned to hold a blade without trembling. Where Qingran buried her first scroll of names beneath plum trees that had never bloomed again.
And now, it was burning.
Orange fire clawed at the dark sky as thick smoke poured upward, choking the moonlight. Screams echoed across the valley—short, sharp, silenced. Qingran stood at the ridge, her heart cold, her face unreadable.
"They moved faster than we expected," Ji Shentao said beside her. He removed his dragon-bone mask. "This isn't just a raid. They're purging memories."
Qingran's fists clenched at her sides.
"Who was inside?" she asked quietly.
Zhi Lan swallowed. "Two sisters from Jiang's district. And… Elder Su."
The name cut deeper than flame.
Elder Su was the first to join Qingran after her rebirth. A retired midwife once sentenced to exile for delivering a noble's illegitimate child. She had kept no sword, no voice, only her hands—and she had used them to heal everyone Qingran brought in.
She was the one who taught them to cook quietly in the dark. To crush herbs in silence. To bury their pain under discipline and whispers.
And now… she was gone.
"We have to move," Ji Shentao said. "There may be survivors hiding in the southern well tunnels."
Qingran nodded slowly, her silver eyes reflecting the fire.
"No one else dies in silence tonight."
They descended the ridge like shadows.
The flames were hottest near the bathhouse ruins. Bodies lay scattered, some covered in soot, others burned beyond recognition. Qingran walked through it without blinking—her spirit absorbing the grief, feeding her cultivation.
Zhi Lan pulled a half-conscious girl from beneath the collapsed roof, her arms blistered but still clutching a scroll.
"I found the garden ledger," she whispered.
Qingran took it and flipped it open. Names. Dates. Codes. Hidden births. This wasn't just a scroll—it was a threat to the entire imperial bloodline.
"That's why they came," Qingran murmured. "Not for us—but to destroy what we remembered."
From the rear gate, a sudden clang rang out.
Soldiers in crimson armor burst through, torches raised. At the front rode a sharp-faced woman in red lacquered robes—Lady Qiao, head of the Internal Palace Guard and one of the Empress's personal executioners.
She scanned the ruins with disdain. "Burn everything. If you see women—kill. If you see scrolls—burn."
Her voice was ice and fire, laced with command.
Qingran raised a hand, stopping Ji Shentao from moving.
"Let them come closer," she said. "We'll bury them where they stand."
What followed was not a battle—it was a lesson.
Qingran moved through the flames like wind through silk. Her blade did not shimmer, but screamed. Each strike shattered armor, each turn of her wrist snapped bones. She did not waste movement. Her body was precise, her fury silent.
Zhi Lan guarded the injured, dragging them to the underground passage.
Ji Shentao disappeared into the smoke, reappearing only to slit throats or shatter a torch before it could ignite more memories.
At last, Lady Qiao stood alone, panting, sword trembling in her grip. Her robe was slashed at the hem. Her eyes widened as she faced Ye Qingran—blood-streaked, cloak torn, standing between her and the last well.
"You…" she breathed. "You're supposed to be dead."
Qingran's voice was low.
"You burned the home of the forgotten. Now remember my name—before I send you to silence."
The final clash echoed like thunder.
Steel met steel. Sparks flew. But Lady Qiao was no match. Qingran disarmed her in three moves, then flipped the woman into the burning herbal field.
"You'll live," Qingran said as the flames consumed the edge of the woman's robes, "long enough to crawl back to your Empress. Tell her the shadows have teeth."
And then she vanished—back into the tunnels—carrying Elder Su's remaining students on her shoulders.
The fire behind them continued to burn.
But the Ninth Courtyard had already left its mark.