The following days on the island passed with an uneasy rhythm. The villagers returned to their nets and rafts, to their gossip and songs, but Lin Feng carried silence with him. The scroll burned in his thoughts. At night he dreamed of falling stars and voices whispering in the mist.
By the seventh night, he could no longer resist. He slipped from his home beneath the dim.lantern light, hiding the scroll under his robe, and made his way to the cliff where the mist lapped against the stones.
There, he.tried to make sense of the diagrams again. The constellations looked
meaningless at first… crooked, scattered. But when he tilted the parchment toward the moonlight, the faded ink seemed to shift. Lines connected stars, forming the outline of a man with a sword raised to the sky.
"Not nonsense," Feng whispered. His chest tightened. "A technique?"
A sound interrupted him a splash, faint but sharp, rising from below. He peered over
the cliff edge. At first he saw only mist. Then, through the shifting silver clouds, he saw a boat unlike any used by the villagers. Its hull was black, its prow carved in the shape of a serpent. A crimson lantern swung from its mast, painting the fog red.
Feng's breath caught. This was no fishing craft..
Figures moved on the deck, their voices low and hard. He could not make out their
words, but the sight alone turned his blood cold. Outsiders. Here.
Before he could retreat, a crack of wood echoed. Something struck the cliff above him. an arrow, its shaft quivering. Another hissed past his ear, embedding in the
rocks.
Feng stumbled backward, holding the scroll. Panic surged, his body frozen between flight and paralysis.
From below came a voice, deep and sharp as steel...
"Boy! Hand over the scroll, and you may keep your life."
His heart hammered. The scroll…
He turned and ran. Feet slapped against stone paths, lungs burning as he sprinted toward the village. Behind him, hooks clinged against the cliff, ropes tightening.
Shadows began to climb, fast as spiders.
Feng dashed through narrow alleys, startling chickens and dogs. His mind raced, should
he hide the scroll? Burn it? But the diagrams…
Another arrow streaked past, grazing his sleeve. He stumbled but pressed on, aiming for the archive. Perhaps he could lose them among the shelves.
But as he reached the courtyard, he froze. A man in black robes stood already within the
gates, his face hidden beneath a hood. His presence was heavy, like the mist itself bent around him. In his hand gleamed a curved blade, faint light rippling across its edge.
"Lin Feng," the man said, voice cold. "Give me the manual."
Feng's throat dried. His legs shook. He could barely form words. "I… I don't know what you mean."
The man stepped closer. "Do not lie."
He had heard whispers of such men in the archives, always in fearful tones: assassins
who served no dynasty, no sect, only silence. For them to appear here, for him…
A whisper cut the night. The attacker stiffened. A thin line of crimson appeared across his cheek. His blade dropped an inch as he staggered back, eyes wide.
From the mist at Feng's side, a figure emerged. Masked. Silent. The same presence Feng had felt before, now undeniable. The figure's robes flowed like water, their sword already dripping with dew and blood.
They did not speak. They merely lifted the blade, pointing it at the assassin.
The assassin hissed, retreating into the dark. "Another time, boy. The scroll cannot hide forever." With a bound, he vanished over the wall.
Feng stood trembling, the scroll clutched against his chest. His savior turned
toward him, eyes glimmering cold silver through the mask. For a long breath they simply stared at each other, two lives pulled together by something neither could yet name.
Then, without a word, the guardian melted back into the mist, leaving Feng alone in
the courtyard with nothing but the sound of his pounding heart.
[The next day]
Lin Feng walked quickly, clutching the oilcloth bundle beneath his robe. His pulse
matched the dull throb of the sea below. His eyes drifted, always searching the mist.
Somewhere in that pale ocean, he felt it the watcher had not left.
The silence was suddenly broken. From the cliffs, a horn sounded. Not the fishermen's call, but something older, stranger.
Villagers gathered, muttering nervously. The sound was low and drawn-out, like the cry of a dying beast.
And then they appeared.
Shapes in the mist, cloaked in black and grey. Faces hidden by half-masks. Steps so
silent that even the gravel did not stir. There were a dozen of them, and though they carried no banners, everyone knew.
Black Shadow Mist Sect.
The crowd shrank back. Old men whispered prayers. Children clutched their mothers' robes.
For the Black shadow Mist rarely showed themselves unless death followed.
One of the masked figures stepped forward. His voice was quiet, but it carried
sharpness.
"By decree of the Sect, a heretic manual has surfaced in these waters. Hand it over, and no blood need stain this isle."
The villagers froze. All eyes turned too quickly towards Lin Feng.
His breath caught. He gripped the scrolls beneath his robe tighter, heat rushing
into his chest. He wanted to deny it, to vanish into the crowd, but the silence
betrayed him.
The masked man tilted his head, amused. "So. The child carries the heavens." Another
assassin chuckled, pulling a thin dagger from his sleeve. "End it quickly. The Sect desires the manual, not the boy's heart."
An elder of the Black shadow Sect, walked from behind the dozen of assassins, his
presence so heavy the air itself seemed to bow. "Hand over the boy," he said, voice soft, terrible. "Or this island drowns in silence."
Lin Feng froze as the assassins advanced. His mother pushed him behind her, but she was trembling, powerless. The villagers cowered.
Then the mist rippled.
Out of the white mist stepped a figure clad in white No words, no boasts. Stillness so
profound it swallowed the sound of waves, of breath, of fear itself. Her mask gleamed faintly, featureless but for two narrow slits glowing with moonlight.
The elder's lips curved. "So the phantom is real. How fortunate, for me to erase a
legend with my own hands."
He flicked his wrist, and the assassins lunged.