They slipped away, moving swiftly into a quieter street tucked behind a row of lantern-lit shops that thankfully had zero exploding carts or overly dramatic skincare products. The chaos of the market faded behind them. Just the hush of a quiet alley and the soft scuff of footsteps.
Peace. At last.
Song Meiyu opened her mouth, probably to say something along the lines of "I think that bottle cursed your soul" but she didn't get the chance.
Because something shifted. Not a sound from the market. Not a breeze. Not a stray dog barking. Not even a single overconfident rooster in the distance. But a movement. Barely a whisper against the air, yet every cultivator instinct in their bodies tensed like a bowstring.
Shadows moved.
Not the cozy kind that came from lanterns or laundry swaying in the wind. But fast, purposeful streaks of darkness sliding across rooftops and slipping through alleys. Figures. One? Two? More.
Linyue's eyes narrowed. Shen Zhenyu tilted his head slightly, tracking something only he could see, expression unreadable but deeply unamused. Song Meiyu slowly reached into her sleeve, either for a hidden weapon or a snack, it was hard to say. Even He Yuying, still marked with suspicious liquid, let his hand drift lazily to his sword hilt.
Then they all looked at each other.
No words spoken. None needed.
The unspoken question: Really? Again?
The unspoken answer: Of course. We attract trouble like fire attracts moths.
They were the kind of group who couldn't go three blocks without tripping over either a plot twist, a mysterious enemy, or a cursed pastry.
Trouble didn't follow them.
Trouble sprinted to catch up.
They had watched too many plays not to recognize the setup. A conveniently quiet alley. And now… mysterious figures in the dark? It had all the classic ingredients of a cliché ambush where the damsel is saved by the mighty protagonist.
Except unfortunately for their would-be attackers, they were no ordinary side characters.
They were the disaster.
The headline.
The cause of last week's broken roof in Xuanyi Pavilion. And, debatably, the protagonists itself depending on who was writing the story. So, as one, they began strolling deeper into the quiet alleyway. Not away from danger—no, no. That would be boring.
They invited it. Because sometimes, the storm doesn't come for you. Sometimes, you walk into the storm and say, "Hi. We've been expecting you."
And perhaps, someone should've warned those rooftop lurkers that ambushing these four was a terrible, terrible idea.
They turned left, then right, then left again only to realize they were going in elegant circles and somehow managed to guide themselves into the emptiest, most suspicious-looking alley in the entire market district. The kind of place that even stray dogs avoided.
A dead end.
They stopped at the brick wall.
Linyue slowly turned her head and arched an eyebrow. This is it, right? This should be the moment where the villains leap dramatically from the rooftops and make their overly long monologues before attacking.
As if the universe had heard her cue, the shadows around them began to shift.
Four figures—black-robed, masked, oozing the kind of edgy presence that screamed "minor antagonists with inflated self-confidence"—slid down from the rooftops and emerged from behind crates and corners like budget villains trying way too hard to look cool.
They struck matching crouches, clearly expecting gasps or at least one person to scream, "Oh no, it's them!"
No one did.
Shen Zhenyu, standing off to the side, silently counted. One… two… just four? He exchanged a glance with He Yuying, who raised an unimpressed eyebrow in return. Honestly, they had expected at least eight for it to be a proper warm-up.
Then, just as Linyue was about to step forward and say something cool like "You picked the wrong group of tourists," she felt… it.
Her right hand.
Her right palm and fingers where she'd rubbed that definitely suspicious water had frozen. Completely. Like someone had swapped her bones with bamboo.
She lifted it slowly. Tried to wiggle her fingers. Nothing. Not even a twitch. Nothing. Not even a twitch. It just… dangled there like a carved wooden prop.
Her eyes darted to He Yuying.
Oh no.
His face—specifically, the left side—was frozen in a deeply suspicious expression. A smile? Maybe. A grimace? Possibly. Or maybe… a smirk stuck in heavy traffic. One eye twitched. His lips were stuck mid-expression, like he'd tried to smirk at a joke halfway through a sneeze and never recovered.
She stared at him, equal parts concerned and horrified. "... Are you okay?"
He Yuying's answer came out as a muffled "Mmmgakgh," which was not reassuring.
Before she could process the implications of that sound, Song Meiyu stepped forward. Or tried to. Her upper half moved just fine—head high, shoulders proud, arms elegant. It was the Song Meiyu flourish, practiced and dramatic. And then—
Her legs betrayed her. One leg took a normal step.
The other… dragged. Like someone had unplugged her halfway through a performance. She shuffled forward like a puppet mid-glitch, part dancer, part tragic ghost.
Linyue blinked.
She looked down at her own still-dangling hand. Then at He Yuying's frozen half-face. Then Song Meiyu's zombie shuffle. Then she turned to Shen Zhenyu.
… Who looked completely fine. Perfect posture. Calm expression. Not a single twitch.
Her eyes narrowed.
The vial. That ridiculous "Potent long river whatever water!" from the stall.
The timing truly could not have been worse.
So now they stood in a dim, suspiciously smelly alley—three out of four heroes visibly malfunctioning, and four black-clad assassins staring at them. At least Shen Zhenyu still looked normal. Which, for some reason, made everything feel worse.
The assassins—hooded, masked, exuding the kind of menace that only comes from hours of practice in front of a mirror—stared at their intended victims. On paper, this should've been simple. Find the targets. Eliminate the targets. Easy. They weren't briefed for this kind of situation. No one told them the targets would be like this.
Then Linyue, completely unfazed, lifted her wooden hand and murmured, "So this is how wooden dolls are born."
That was it.
Shen Zhenyu, the only one still fully functional, wheezed. He actually had to turn away, shoulders shaking with silent laughter like this was the best play he'd seen all year.
That was the final straw.
The assassins, deeply offended in ways they didn't fully understand, made a decision.
They charged.
Four against four.
But equal numbers never meant equal power. Not when three of your opponents have been trained in swordsmanship, and improvisational chaos. And definitely not when the fourth one was Shen Zhenyu.
The assassins should've stayed home. Or at least, brought better skincare.
The assassin assigned to Linyue dashed forward, his blade slicing the air with deadly precision. He moved like a snake—sharp, fast, focused—expecting a clash of steel, a flash of resistance, maybe a dramatic scream. What he got instead… was ballet.
Linyue didn't block. She didn't even draw a weapon. She just moved. Gracefully. Effortlessly. Like a dancer who had wandered into the wrong scene but decided to perform anyway. Her long sleeves swirled, her robe flowing with every turn. She glided, dipped, spun—feet barely whispering against the cobblestones. Her expression remained untouched, calm, almost bored.
Slash—she twisted away, robes swirling.
Swipe—she dipped under, the hem of her robe brushing the cobblestones.
Again, he attacked.
Again, she dodged, not with brute force, but fluidity. Each movement so poised it felt choreographed.
It was mesmerizing.
It was maddening.
The assassin, growing red in the face (partly from frustration, partly from all the spinning), finally snapped. With a growl, he pulled back, gathered his spiritual energy into his palm, and summoned a flame. It flickered to life with a small, crackling sound.
Linyue paused. Tilted her head slightly, unimpressed. Her tone was mild. Pitying, even. "Fire element? Mid stage, forth level? What is this? Who sent assassin this weak these days?"
The assassin roared, because what else could he do? and lunged.