The parchment lay flat on the table, its edges curling slightly from the humidity in the air. I had already read the lines thrice, each word burning itself into my mind, each stroke of ink whispering more than the sender likely intended.
The handwriting was meticulous — not the crude scrawl of a street runner, nor the formal calligraphy of a scholar. No, this was the hand of a trained scribe, one who had spent years writing for officials, possibly sect envoys. But the faint unevenness in certain strokes told me something else: the writer was under duress when composing this. Someone had forced him to commit these words to paper, and yet… he had hidden a signature in his flourishes. A small curve here, a flick there — identifiers only another trained observer would notice.
That signature belonged to a man named Shu Ren.
Shu Ren worked exclusively for high-ranking messengers in the city. And Shu Ren never wrote unless ordered by someone powerful enough to protect him from the fallout. That narrowed the list of possible senders considerably.
Iron Hand School.
It was them — or someone using them as a mask.
I leaned back in my chair, letting the faint creak of wood fill the silence of my room. Outside, the wind rattled the shutters, carrying with it the distant laughter of drunk mercenaries in the street below. The world carried on as if it weren't a chessboard, each life a piece waiting to be sacrificed.
In my first life, I would have stormed into Iron Hand territory demanding answers, righteous indignation leading the way. I would have told Bao everything, and he would have stood by my side, unflinching in his loyalty. We would have bled together, perhaps even died together, thinking our unity was worth something in this cold world.
That was then.
This was now.
Now, I knew unity was an illusion, loyalty a currency too easily spent.
I heard the creak of floorboards outside, followed by a soft knock. "Brother Yan? You still awake?" Bao's voice — warm, almost too warm for the chill of the room.
"Come in," I said.
The door opened, and Bao stepped in, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair wind-tossed. He carried a small bundle of steamed buns wrapped in cloth, their faint aroma of pork filling the air.
"Thought you might be hungry," he said with a grin.
I eyed him — nineteen, barely a man, but with the kind of open, guileless face that made strangers trust him instantly. In this world, such a face was a death sentence.
"I already ate," I lied.
"Then eat again. Can't scheme on an empty stomach." He set the bundle on the table, glancing at the parchment. "Another one of your clues?"
I moved my hand casually, covering it. "Nothing important. Just something I picked up at the market."
He nodded without pressing further. That was Bao — curious, but never prying. Loyal without conditions.
"Bao," I said, as if the thought had just come to me, "you still have that contact near the west gate? The one who owes you a favor?"
Bao tilted his head. "Old Kwan? Yeah. Why?"
"I need a message delivered to him. Quietly."
His brow furrowed. "Quietly?"
"Yes. And from there, it will find its way to the right ears. But it has to come from you — if they see me, the meaning changes. You, on the other hand… you're invisible to them."
I slid a folded scrap across the table. On it was a fabricated lead — whispers of a caravan laden with rare spiritual ore, scheduled to pass through an abandoned snow road two nights from now. False in some details, true in others — enough to tempt the greedy, enough to make them act.
Bao took it without hesitation. "That all?"
"That's all," I said, meeting his eyes. "Don't linger. Hand it off, then go home."
He grinned. "You make it sound like I'm carrying poison."
"Everything in this world is poison if you swallow too much," I said, turning my gaze back to the parchment.
He laughed lightly and left, the sound of his boots fading into the stairwell.
When the door shut, I let my smile fade.
I had chosen him for this because they wouldn't suspect him — a harmless errand boy with no stake in murim politics. But it was also because his face would make the rumor seem genuine. Those who looked into him would find only a loyal, foolish youth. And in the grand scheme, that was the perfect disguise for bait.
* * * * * * * * *
The next morning, the snow began to fall.
By midday, I had already confirmed the rumor was spreading. Old Kwan had done his part, whispering it to the right drunkards in the right taverns. By evening, the first ripples appeared: men in Iron Hand colors drinking faster than usual, whispering too softly for normal business. A group of strangers from the southern quarter suddenly purchasing cold-weather gear.
The snow road would be busy soon.
That night, I walked the city streets alone, letting the falling snow hide my face. My destination was the edge of the west district, where the abandoned caravan road curved away into the mountains. I had walked this path in my first life too, but then it had been in pursuit of an enemy, not an opportunity. I had been reckless then.
Now, I was patient.
The snow road was narrow, flanked by jagged outcroppings and sparse pine. Perfect for an ambush — or several. I paced the length of it slowly, mapping sightlines in my mind, noting where the shadows would fall at midnight, where the snow would be deepest, where the rocks would break an arrow's flight.
From a ridge, I could see the faint glow of city lanterns behind me. Somewhere in that maze of streets, Bao would be finishing his supper, thinking he had done me a simple favor.
And maybe… maybe there was a part of me that wanted him to stay there, safe in his warmth. That part was small, almost buried. But it existed.
I tightened my gloves and stepped deeper into the snow road.
The trap was set. The pieces were moving.
And I would be ready to claim what fell between them.
* * * * * * * * *
Snow fell in thick, uneven sheets, muting the world into shades of grey and white.
The air was sharp enough to sting the lungs, each breath leaving a faint cloud before vanishing into the endless night.
I crouched on the ridge above the snow road, my eyes fixed on the bend below — the bend where the road narrowed to the width of a single wagon. To the untrained eye, it was just another curve in a forgotten path. To me, it was the perfect killing ground.
Across from me, hidden behind a cluster of pine, lay a small bundle wrapped in oilcloth — my preparations. Rations, spare arrows, two poisoned throwing knives, and a pouch of black powder that could blind a dozen men if the wind favored me.
Patience.
That was the game now. I had learned in my second life that killing wasn't always the point. Sometimes, letting others kill for you was the far sharper blade.
A flicker of movement on the far side of the bend caught my eye.
Two men in wolfskin cloaks, their boots breaking through the snow crust with muffled crunches. They moved like hunters — slow, deliberate — their hands never straying far from the hilts of their sabers. Mercenaries.
Good.
They weren't the prey, but they were the first scent of blood in the water.
More figures emerged over the next half hour — in twos, in threes — all converging on the snow road's narrow bend. Some carried crossbows under their cloaks, others wore the red sashes of the Iron Hand School half-hidden beneath travel coats. The air grew tense, the silence punctuated only by the shifting snow beneath cautious steps.
They were waiting for the caravan. The caravan that would never come.
And in their waiting, they would expose themselves.
* * * * * * * * *
It was the faint jangle of harness bells that froze the air.
From the northern approach came a wagon, its lantern swinging gently with each bump of the frozen path. Two oxen pulled it, their breath steaming in the cold. On the driver's seat sat a single figure — head wrapped in a scarf, body hunched against the wind.
I narrowed my eyes. That wasn't part of my plan.
Then, as the wagon drew closer, I recognized the gait of the driver. The way the shoulders rolled slightly with each pull of the reins.
Bao.
A thin thread of irritation cut through me, followed by something colder. He had ignored my instructions. I had told him to pass the message and disappear. Yet here he was, driving into the teeth of the trap.
The wolfskins moved first. They stepped onto the road, hands raised in false greeting. One smiled — too many teeth for the gesture to be real.
Bao slowed the wagon, feigning surprise. I could almost hear his voice even from here: "Evening, brothers. Cold night for travel, isn't it?"
He was buying time. For what, I didn't know.
The red-sashed Iron Hand men stepped out next, flanking the wolfskins. The bend filled with bodies, the air heavy with unspoken intent.
One of the Iron Hand stepped forward. His voice carried easily in the still air.
"You've got something in that wagon worth my time, friend?"
Bao shrugged. "Just salted pork and cheap wine. You're welcome to buy some."
Laughter. Low, predatory.
They weren't here to buy.
The wolfskins moved to the wagon's sides, one hand on the planks. Bao's right hand twitched — just slightly — toward the tarp in the back.
Then it happened.
The first crossbow bolt hissed from the pines to my left, punching through a wolfskin's shoulder. He screamed, staggering back, blood misting in the cold air.
Chaos erupted.
Bolts flew from hidden positions. The Iron Hand men scattered, drawing sabers. The wolfskins roared and charged. Someone overturned the wagon's lantern, spilling flame into the snow.
I stayed still. Watching.
The trap had sprung — not by my hand, but by someone else's. That was fine. It didn't matter who cast the first stone, only who survived to claim the pieces.
Bao leapt from the driver's seat, rolling into the snow. He came up with a short blade in hand, slashing at the nearest wolfskin. His movements were clumsy but desperate — the kind of fighting born from necessity, not training.
Too exposed.
I saw it before it happened.
From the treeline behind him, a man in Iron Hand colors raised a bow. His draw was steady, the arrowhead glinting faintly in the firelight. Bao didn't see him — he was too busy fending off the wolfskin in front.
The bowstring twanged.
The arrow struck Bao between the ribs, the force knocking him backward into the snow. His blade slipped from his fingers, vanishing into the drift.
For a moment, the battle noise dulled in my ears. My eyes tracked only him.
He was still breathing — shallow, fast. His eyes darted toward the bend, searching for something. Or someone.
I knew what — who — he was looking for.
But I didn't move.
From this distance, I could have reached him. I could have thrown a knife, distracted the archer, done… something.
But the truth was, Bao's death served the board better than his survival.
He had carried my false rumor. He had drawn them here. And now, his death would erase suspicion of me entirely.
In my first life, I would have been at his side already, bleeding with him in the snow.
In this life…
I stayed on the ridge.
* * * * * * * * *
The fight lasted another five minutes before both sides broke, retreating into the trees with their wounded. The wagon lay half-burned in the bend, its oxen dead in their traces.
I waited until the snow began to cover the blood. Only then did I descend from the ridge.
Bao still lay where he had fallen. His breath came in ragged pulls, his lips pale. When he saw me, a faint, almost relieved smile curved his mouth.
"Brother… I thought… I'd missed you," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind.
I knelt beside him, my face calm. "I was here."
His eyes searched mine. "…Feels strange. Like… this is the first time… I've died."
I didn't answer.
He coughed once — a thin spray of blood staining the snow — and then his chest stilled.
For a long moment, I remained there, watching the snow begin to claim him. In this cold world, a body became part of the landscape faster than one might think.
When I finally stood, I didn't look back.
The board had changed again. And I was still in the game.