Dawn broke with the same dull grey light that always slipped through the warped shutters of my room. The Red Fang hideout smelled of old smoke and last night's rice wine. I sat on the edge of my cot, staring at the small folded note on the table.
[We know your name.]
Four words. Nothing else. No seal, no signature. Just cheap ink on cheaper paper.
I'd dealt with worse threats in my first life. In that life, threats like this usually came hours before someone's corpse was found in an alley. But the message wasn't meant to scare me. Not exactly. It was a test. Someone wanted to see how I would react — whether I'd panic, make noise, or slip quietly out of sight.
So I did none of those.
I left the note where it was and went about my morning. The trick was to let them believe they were ahead of me, while I was already two moves ahead of them.
The Red Fang hideout was waking up — slow, lazy, hungover. Men stumbled out of their rooms, scratching at themselves, muttering about the cold. The smell of frying scallion cakes wafted from the kitchen. I joined the queue for breakfast like everyone else, bowl in hand, wearing the same blank expression I'd perfected over years of hiding my thoughts.
I caught Old Jin watching me from the far corner. His eyes lingered, just a second too long, before he looked back to his bowl. He was good at hiding suspicion, but I'd learned to read the smallest tells.
He hadn't sent that note — too direct, too clumsy for him. But he was waiting to see how I'd move.
Bao Liang wandered in late, a bandage peeking from under his sleeve where he'd taken a scrape in yesterday's scuffle. He avoided meeting my eyes. That was good. Fear made people predictable.
After breakfast, I made my rounds. Not the official kind. The kind where you take a slow walk through the market district, stopping to greet the right faces, dropping coins in the right palms. Beggars, tea house servers, and dockside porters — these people were my true network. They saw things the gangs missed.
"Morning, Master Zhang," I greeted an old man hunched on the corner with his basket of chestnuts. He wasn't my master, but the title kept his pride intact.
He didn't look at me. Just muttered, "Two days past, a man in a grey scarf asked for you. Didn't buy anything."
"What did you tell him?" I asked lightly.
"That I didn't know the name. He smiled. Still left a copper in the basket."
I slipped a larger coin into his palm. "Good."
The grey scarf meant nothing on its own, but combined with the note, it painted a pattern — a watcher who didn't care about being recognized. That meant confidence. Or arrogance.
At the docks, I found a tea stall run by a woman in her forties who never forgot a face or a piece of gossip. I bought two cups of bitter brew and let her talk.
"You hear about the Iron Hand School?" she asked, voice low.
"I hear many things," I said.
"They're hiring. Not the flashy kind — the quiet kind. Muscle for night work."
That fit the timeline from my past life. Iron Hand School had been weeks away from a turf grab that would end in a blood-soaked street and a power shift. But now I had the chance to use that shift instead of being crushed by it.
More importantly, she added, "A man matching your height, wearing a grey scarf, was asking dockhands about you. Said you owed him money."
That was the second confirmation. The grey-scarf man was my link to whoever sent the note.
I left the docks before noon, heading back to the hideout along the long way — through alleys and backstreets that wound between butcher shops and fishmongers. Every turn was deliberate. Every shadow was measured.
And there it was — the faint crunch of gravel behind me. Light steps, unhurried. A man who thought he was hunting, but hadn't realized the ground beneath him was shifting.
I didn't turn. Not yet. Instead, I passed by a pawn shop and stepped inside, pretending to browse rusty blades and chipped vases. In the dusty mirror behind the counter, I caught a glimpse.
Grey scarf.
Average height, average build — the kind of man you'd forget a minute after seeing him. But his eyes were sharp, and his hands never strayed far from the folds of his robe.
I bought nothing and left, taking the narrow lane toward the west gate. I slowed my pace, letting the gap between us shrink. If he followed me here, it meant he wasn't just passing through — he was committed.
The west gate was quiet at this hour. Few people, fewer witnesses. Perfect for what I had in mind.
But not yet. Not today. Today was for measuring. I wanted him comfortable, certain he could get close without being noticed.
So I led him toward the Red Fang territory, making it look like I hadn't seen him. And just before I reached the hideout, I ducked into the crowded tavern on the corner. The sudden change in movement forced him to hesitate — the first crack in his rhythm.
That hesitation told me enough.
By the time I finished my drink and stepped out, he was gone. But he'd be back. Men like that didn't give up after one failed chance.
That night, in my room, I took out a small cloth pouch from under the cot. Inside were two things: a thin cord of braided silk, and a knife with no guard — perfect for stabbing up close.
I placed them both on the table beside the note.
If someone wanted to play at shadows, I'd show them the darkness I'd lived in for decades.
Tomorrow, I'd give them their chance.
Morning came colder than expected, the kind that seeped into your bones before you even stepped outside. I dressed in layers, but not too heavily — a heavy coat might slow my movements. My knife slid easily into the fold at my hip, silk cord coiled around my wrist beneath the sleeve.
The bait was simple. Not perfect — perfection makes men suspicious. Just believable enough to tempt him into action.
I told a few choice ears that I'd be leaving the hideout before dawn tomorrow to deliver a package to the northern warehouses — alone. No backup, no escort. I made sure my tone was casual, almost annoyed, as if the errand was beneath me.
In murim society, information travels faster than any runner. It doesn't matter if the listener is loyal or not; they'll tell someone, and that someone will tell the person I want.
The package was nothing — an empty wooden box wrapped in red twine. But I carried it under my arm like it held something precious.
The streets were still waking. Smoke rose from chimneys, and somewhere in the distance, a gong sounded to mark the start of the day. My boots crunched frost as I made my way along the less-traveled path toward the warehouses.
Halfway there, I caught it — the faintest shift in air, the soft scrape of leather on stone. Grey Scarf was here. Close.
I didn't change my pace. Didn't look back. I let him follow for ten streets. The pattern of his footsteps told me enough — measured, steady, the gait of someone trained to kill without hurry.
When we reached the alley behind the third warehouse, I stepped inside without hesitation. It was narrow, lined with stacked crates and barrels, the walls so close a man could touch both sides with outstretched arms. Perfect.
Halfway through, I let the box slip from my grip.
The sound of it hitting the ground was the signal he'd been waiting for.
I heard the rush of feet before the blade.
He came from behind — fast, silent, a short sword in his hand angled for the gap between my ribs. His killing intent was sharp enough to feel against my skin.
But I had lived this moment before, in another life. And in that life, I had been the one lying in the dirt afterward.
Not this time.
At the last possible instant, I stepped sideways and pivoted, my left hand catching his sword arm at the wrist. My right hand drove the guardless knife up under his ribs. The silk cord snapped taut as I looped it around his neck in the same motion, twisting hard.
The surprise in his eyes lasted only a second before pain replaced it. He tried to wrench free, but in this narrow alley, movement was his enemy.
I leaned in close, voice low. "You've got three heartbeats to tell me who sent you before I open your throat."
He gritted his teeth, breath ragged. "You… don't scare me."
Wrong answer.
I pressed the knife just enough to draw blood. The silk cord bit deeper into his skin. "That was one heartbeat."
He spat at my boots. The second heartbeat passed.
By the third, his bravado faltered. "Iron… Hand… School." His words were choked, his face reddening. "Said you… were trouble."
Not a lie — his pulse didn't spike. But it wasn't the whole truth either. The Iron Hand School wouldn't send an assassin this early in their plans unless someone had nudged them.
"Who told them?" I asked.
He shook his head, whether in ignorance or defiance I couldn't tell. His body tensed, a last-ditch attempt to break free.
That was his mistake.
I wrenched the knife sideways and felt his weight sag. The cord slipped free, and I caught him before he hit the ground, lowering him against the wall to keep the noise down.
His eyes were still open when the life left them.
I took a moment to steady my breathing. Killing wasn't the hard part. The hard part was what came after.
From his robe, I pulled a small purse of coins, two throwing knives, and a folded scrap of parchment. The parchment bore the Iron Hand School's seal — but the handwriting on it wasn't theirs. I didn't recognize it yet, but I would.
The body had to vanish. Leaving it here would draw questions I didn't want asked.
The back of the alley connected to a drainage channel that ran toward the river. I dragged him there, removed anything that could trace back to me, and rolled him into the sluggish water. In the cold, it would be hours before he was found — maybe longer if the river took him far enough downstream.
When I stepped back onto the street, I was just another man carrying an empty box.
* * * * * * * * *
Back at the hideout, the air was thick with the usual noise — dice games, arguments, laughter. I slipped into my room, washed the blood from my hands, and examined the parchment again.
It wasn't about the Iron Hand School anymore. They were just the knife. Someone else was holding the handle.
And now, I had their scent.