The streets outside the tea warehouse were quiet in the way only a Murim city could be quiet — not silence, but the absence of anything predictable.
Bootsteps on wet cobblestones echoed unevenly, scraps of drunken laughter rose and fell like waves, and somewhere down an alley a knife was being sharpened against brick.
I slipped my hands into my sleeves and walked as if I had nowhere to be. The key to moving through these streets was the same as moving through any negotiation — you didn't let anyone see you measuring the angles.
I was still replaying the meeting in my head. The hawk-nosed man had kept his voice calm, but he'd given away more than he thought. Half the factions were more afraid of the truth than of each other. That was leverage. But leverage meant nothing if I didn't survive long enough to use it.
Which brought me back to the archer.
I had seen the black fletching only twice now — once in Bao's chest, and once on the parchment in my attic, the arrow used as a paperweight. No signature. No message. Just the shaft itself, perfectly weighted, the fletching cut so sharp it could split a hair. Whoever was behind it had enough skill to strike without being seen and enough patience to watch without being caught.
Patience. That was the dangerous part. Impulsive killers could be provoked into mistakes. But someone patient? They didn't waste arrows.
I needed information.
The beggars' guild kept their eyes open for coin, but the older ones — the true street veterans — valued food and warmth more than silver. I found one near Lantern Bend, an old man with a cataract in one eye and the posture of someone who'd once known how to fight.
"Hot broth for a story?" I said, squatting beside him.
He tilted his head, studied me with his good eye, and spat to the side. "Depends on the story."
"Black-fletched arrows. Long range. Strikes without warning."
His mouth tightened. "You're not buying a story, boy. You're buying trouble."
"I already own trouble," I said evenly. "I'm just seeing if anyone else rents it out."
He hesitated, then nodded toward the noodle stall across the street. "Buy me soup. Pork, not chicken."
I did. He slurped in silence for a while before speaking. "Used to be a man… if you can call him that. Called himself Silent Reed. Not a sect man. Not a clan man. Just… drifted. Sold his bow to anyone with coin and a name. Could take an eye out from a hundred paces in the rain."
"What happened to him?"
"They say he vanished after putting an arrow through a White Crane elder's skull." The old man's good eye flicked to me. "Vanished, but not dead. Men like that don't die easy. They just stop being seen."
I slid a coin across the table. "If you see black fletching again, tell me where."
He pocketed it without thanks. "If I live long enough."
I left him to his soup.
* * * * * * * * *
I cut through an alley that smelled of rotting ginger and damp rope. My boots made no sound on the wet stone. The lanterns were few here, their paper shades mottled with mildew. It was the kind of place no one lingered without purpose.
Halfway through, I stopped.
It wasn't a sound. It wasn't movement. It was the absence of both.
Then —
thwip
The arrow split the air past my left ear and buried itself in the wall a hand's breadth from my head. I hadn't seen the archer. I still didn't. But I knew the shot wasn't meant to kill.
I turned my head slowly. The black fletching trembled slightly from the impact. Perfect craftsmanship. No nicks, no flaws. My reflection stared back at me from the lacquered shaft — pale, calm, alive for now.
I plucked it from the wall and weighed it in my hand. The balance was flawless. Whoever fired it could have ended me with that shot. They hadn't.
A warning. Or an invitation.
Either way, it told me something. Silent Reed — if that's who it was — wanted me to know he was close. Close enough to touch me.
I walked on without looking up. Looking was a concession. My mind was already moving to the next step. If he wanted me to feel hunted, I would let him think it worked — and then I would make him come close enough to regret it.
* * * * * * * * *
That night, back in my attic, I laid the arrow across the table. Beside it, the parchment from days before. I traced the fletching with one finger, memorizing every detail.
In my first life, Bao's death would have frozen me. I would have thrown myself into revenge blindly, burning every bridge just to taste justice. That version of me had died before the arrow was even loosed.
Now? I was colder than the steel tips this man carried. Revenge without survival was just self-indulgence.
Silent Reed — if he was alive — would learn that I didn't waste moves either.
* * * * * * * * *
The arrow lay across my table like an accusation.
Its presence in my attic made the air feel sharper, as if the walls themselves knew something dangerous had crossed their threshold.
I turned it in my hands. The balance was flawless, the fletching stiff but flexible, the shaft so perfectly smooth it felt like water over stone. I had no doubt — this was the work of Silent Reed.
A man like that didn't fire for warnings without reason. Either he was measuring me, or he was sending a message to someone else through me. Both were unacceptable.
In my first life, I would have spent the next week hiding in shadows, waiting for a chance to return the shot. This time, I would make him come to me.
* * * * * * * * *
I began with routine.
The next morning, I left the attic at the same time I had yesterday. I followed the same path, passed the same stalls, paused the same way to look at the same lacquered fan in the merchant's window. I bought a skewer of grilled pork from the same vendor and ate it slowly, the smoke curling around my face.
To anyone watching from a distance, I was a man of habit. Habits were comforting to predators — they made prey predictable.
But the street I chose to take home that evening was not the same.
It bent twice around stone storehouses before narrowing into a blind alley. On either side, I had strung fine trip lines high enough that they wouldn't be noticed in the dim light. The ground beneath them was scattered with crushed oyster shell — soft enough to not sound underfoot, but white enough to catch the reflection of any shadow passing through.
I also wore a second robe beneath the first. Its back was layered with thin bamboo slats, light enough not to slow me but thick enough to turn an arrowhead.
The trick was patience. I had to look vulnerable long enough for him to take the bait.
* * * * * * * * *
By the third night, I felt the weight of eyes on me again. It wasn't the casual attention of a pickpocket or the interest of a merchant. It was the steady, unblinking focus of someone who'd already imagined how I would fall.
I slowed my pace, as if tired. My hand brushed the wall for balance. The air was cool against my face, and I let it carry the sound of my footsteps farther than usual.
The shot came — not from behind, but from my right, an oblique angle. Clever. A direct shot from behind would have risked my armor.
The arrow whispered through the air toward my ribs. I twisted just enough for it to glance off the bamboo slats under my robe. The impact was silent, hidden beneath the sound of my next step.
If he realized I'd survived, he'd vanish. I couldn't allow that. So I kept walking as if nothing had happened.
* * * * * * * * *
The alley bent ahead. That was my moment. I let my pace quicken, as though eager to be home, then stepped into the shadow just past the corner and pressed flat against the wall.
From there, I could see the reflection of the oyster shell scatter behind me. And in that reflection — movement.
A figure emerged, lean and deliberate. His bow was already lowered, arrow gone. A scarf covered the lower half of his face, but the eyes above it were cold and still, as if carved from something older than stone.
Silent Reed.
He didn't look toward me. He looked past me, toward the street beyond the bend, scanning for witnesses. Then he moved — swift, silent, purposeful — toward the rooftops.
I could have stepped out. Could have taken the shot I'd been waiting for. But killing him here would end the thread.
No. I wanted the loom. The weaver. The entire bolt of cloth.
So I let him go. I moved only when he was nearly out of sight, keeping to the shadows, matching his pace from two streets away.
He crossed the merchant quarter, slipped past the guards at the east gate with a token I couldn't see, and vanished into the hills beyond.
By the time I reached the rise, his form was a shadow against the pale light of the moon. Still visible. Still traceable.
And I knew exactly what I would do next.