Wei Shao's sword carved through the air with lethal precision, the blade singing as it cut toward Hu's exposed neck—
The driver's dagger intercepted at the last possible moment, metal shrieking against metal as the two weapons met in a shower of sparks. The impact drove the driver backward, his feet sliding across blood-slicked floor, but he'd bought Hu the split-second needed to duck beneath the killing blow.
"MOVE!" Hu roared, his voice raw with desperation and fury.
The three of them surged through the doorway in a desperate rush, stumbling over the bodies of guards they'd killed, their clothes soaked in blood both their own and their enemies', their weapons dripping crimson.
They made it outside.
Into the manor grounds where lantern light painted everything in false warmth, where the ornamental gardens they'd observed for two weeks now became obstacles to navigate while running for their lives, where their carefully planned escape route had already been compromised by guards who'd sealed the main gate and positioned themselves along every path toward freedom.
*We're not going to make it,* Zhung's cold analytical mind calculated even as his legs pumped, even as he ran with everything his body-tempered physique could provide. *Too many guards. Too many obstacles. Bai is down, probably dead. We're wounded and exhausted and they know this terrain better than we do.*
*Survival probability approaching zero.*
But they ran anyway, because stopping meant certain death and running meant possible death, and possible was always better than certain.
They made it perhaps fifty feet into the gardens before the guards caught them.
Not through superior speed or individual skill, but through numbers and tactical positioning. Guards emerged from multiple directions simultaneously—behind hedges, around corners of the garden paths, from positions they'd taken while the assassins were still fighting inside the manor.
A coordinated trap. Professional execution. Wei Shao's work, undoubtedly.
The driver went down first, tackled from the side by three guards at once, their combined weight and momentum driving him to the ground. His daggers flashed twice more—two more guards screamed and fell away clutching wounds—but then someone kicked the weapons from his hands and another smashed a sword pommel into the side of his masked head.
He went limp, unconscious or dead, his body pinned beneath guards who weren't taking any chances with someone who'd already killed several of their companions.
Hu lasted longer through sheer vicious determination. When guards tried to surround him, he grabbed one and used the man as a shield, his powerful arms snapping the guard's neck before hurling the corpse at approaching enemies. His fists broke bones and crushed throats. His feet shattered knees and cracked skulls.
But cultivator endurance had limits, and Hu had been fighting at full intensity for several minutes. Fatigue was setting in. His movements were slowing fractionally. His breathing was labored.
A guard managed to get behind him—one of Wei Shao's better students, moving with the security chief's ghost-like stealth—and drove a sword pommel into the base of Hu's skull with precise force.
The older assassin staggered, his eyes going unfocused, his balance failing. He tried to turn, tried to continue fighting, but his body wasn't responding properly anymore. More guards swarmed him, bearing him to the ground through overwhelming numbers, pinning his arms and legs until he couldn't move despite his struggles.
That left only Zhung.
He'd made it furthest from the manor, nearly reaching the ornamental wall that surrounded the property, so close to escape that he could see the top of the barrier clearly in the lantern light.
*Eight feet tall,* he remembered from their scouting. *Climbable in seconds for someone with cultivator abilities. If I can reach it before they catch me—*
But he couldn't.
Guards materialized from shadows on all sides, their encirclement perfect, their timing coordinated by someone who understood tactics and terrain intimately. Wei Shao's voice carried clearly across the garden, directing his forces with calm authority:
"The young one with dark eyes—take him alive. Master Lu wants all of them breathing for interrogation."
*Alive,* Zhung's mind noted even as he spun to face the approaching guards, his dagger raised in a defensive posture that was more symbolic than practical. *They want prisoners. That's both better and worse than wanting corpses. Better because it means I'm not dying in the next few seconds. Worse because interrogation and public execution will be slower and more painful than dying in combat.*
He formed the Stone Bullet hand sign with his free hand, his Aperture opening to channel what little demonic blood remained after multiple technique uses. The compressed stone materialized at his fingertip, ready to fire—
A guard rushed from his blind side, faster than Zhung's tired reflexes could track, and struck his extended arm with a wooden baton that sent lightning bolts of pain through his nervous system.
The Stone Bullet technique collapsed, the Will dissipating, the carefully formed projectile crumbling to dust before it could be fired.
Zhung's dagger lashed out in desperate retaliation, opening a guard's cheek in a spray of blood, but then someone kicked his legs out from under him and he went down hard, his back slamming into the garden path with enough force to drive the air from his lungs.
Hands grabbed his arms—strong hands, many of them—pinning him to the ground. Someone kicked his dagger away. Someone else placed a knee on his chest with crushing weight, making breathing difficult.
He struggled, his body-tempered strength allowing him to throw off one guard, then another, but more kept coming, their numbers inexhaustible, their determination absolute.
*This is it,* Zhung thought with cold acceptance as the world spun and his vision began to narrow from lack of oxygen. *Captured. Mission failed. Life forfeit.*
*The Broken Path ends here.*
Something hard struck the side of his head—another sword pommel, delivered with professional precision to incapacitate without killing.
Darkness rushed in.
Consciousness fled.
And Zhung knew nothing more.
---
When awareness returned, it came with pain.
Everything hurt—his head throbbing where he'd been struck, his ribs aching from impacts he didn't remember receiving, his arms burning from rope binding them behind his back with enough tightness to restrict circulation.
He was kneeling.
On the polished wooden floor of the Lu manor's banquet hall, forced into a position of submission, his head hanging forward because he lacked the strength to lift it properly.
Around him, he could hear breathing—labored and pained, suggesting his companions were in similar condition.
Slowly, fighting through the fog of concussion and exhaustion, Zhung raised his head.
The banquet hall looked different now. The chaos was gone, replaced by something more orderly but no less disturbing. Bodies had been removed—the guards they'd killed, the evidence of violence cleaned away with efficient thoroughness. The blood had been mopped from the floors, though faint stains remained visible in the wood grain where it had soaked too deep to be completely erased.
And standing before them, arranged in a line like trophies on display, were the four assassins.
Bai knelt to Zhung's right, barely conscious, his face pale as death itself, his breathing shallow and wet with blood still filling his punctured lungs. The wound in his torso had been bandaged—not out of mercy, but to keep him alive long enough for whatever Lu Shin had planned. His golden eyes were half-closed, unfocused, seeing without comprehending.
*Still alive,* Zhung noted with distant surprise. *Wei Shao's blade missed the heart and major arteries. Bai should be dead from blood loss and shock, but cultivator physiology is keeping him breathing. For now.*
To Zhung's left knelt Hu, fully conscious but clearly in pain, his face bruised and swollen from the beating he'd received during capture. His eyes burned with fury and shame—the expression of a professional who knew he'd failed, who understood the consequences, who resented being displayed like this but lacked the power to prevent it.
And beside Hu knelt the driver, his mask somehow still in place despite everything, his breathing steady but his posture suggesting injuries beneath his clothes. His head was bowed in what might have been submission or might have been strategic deception—with the mask hiding his expression, it was impossible to know what thoughts occupied his mind.
Four assassins. Four failures. Four lives measured in minutes or hours rather than years.
Before them stood Wei Shao, his expression as cold and empty as Zhung's usually was, his eyes showing nothing of whatever satisfaction he might feel at having captured enemies who'd killed several of his guards. His sword was sheathed now, his stance relaxed but ready, a professional warrior who never assumed victory was complete until enemies were confirmed dead.
And behind Wei Shao, descending from the stage with slow, deliberate steps that echoed in the suddenly quiet hall, came Lu Shin.
The young viscount looked completely unharmed, his expensive robes still immaculate, his hair still perfectly styled, his face showing nothing of the violence that had erupted in his home less than an hour ago. He moved with confident grace, the bearing of someone who'd just won a significant victory and intended to savor every moment of it.
His eyes swept across the four kneeling assassins, assessing them with the same analytical precision he probably applied to business opportunities—calculating their value, their threat level, their potential uses before disposal.
When his gaze reached Zhung, something flickered in Lu Shin's expression. Curiosity, perhaps. Or recognition that this one was different from the others.
Zhung met his gaze without flinching, his dark eyes as empty and expressionless as always, showing nothing of the pain and exhaustion and resignation that occupied his thoughts.
*No fear,* Zhung decided coldly. *No pleading. No begging for mercy or trying to negotiate. Just cold acceptance of consequences. I chose this path. I failed on this mission. Now I pay the price.*
*That's the only dignity left to someone in my position.*
Lu Shin's eyes narrowed slightly, studying Zhung's face with increased interest, clearly puzzled by the complete absence of emotion in someone who should be terrified.
Then, without warning, Lu Shin's foot lashed out.
The kick caught Zhung directly in the face with surprising force for someone who wasn't primarily a warrior. Pain exploded through Zhung's jaw and cheek, his head snapping to the side, blood filling his mouth from where teeth had cut the inside of his cheek.
He spat blood onto the floor—a crimson splatter that marred the cleaned wood—and slowly turned his head back to face Lu Shin.
His expression hadn't changed. Still empty. Still cold. Still showing absolutely nothing despite the pain radiating through his skull.
"Fascinating," Lu Shin said, his voice carrying genuine curiosity beneath the malice. "Even now, even captured and facing certain death, you show nothing. No fear. No anger. Not even defiance. Just... emptiness."
He crouched down to be at eye level with Zhung, studying him like a scholar examining an interesting specimen.
"What are you?" Lu Shin asked softly. "What kind of person becomes an assassin at—what, sixteen? Seventeen?—and faces execution with such complete emotional absence?"
Zhung said nothing. There was nothing to say. No answer that would change anything or provide advantage.
Lu Shin's smile widened, taking Zhung's silence as confirmation of something.
"Well," he said, standing and turning to address the hall at large, "regardless of what you are, you failed. You and your companions came to my home, infiltrated my celebration, attempted to murder me in front of dozens of witnesses. And now you'll serve as an example of what happens to those who threaten Lu Shin."
He laughed—a sound of genuine amusement and satisfaction, the laughter of someone who'd orchestrated a complex plan and seen it execute perfectly.
As if responding to a signal Zhung hadn't noticed, the doors to the banquet hall opened, and people began filing back in.
Zhung's eyes tracked them with growing confusion that finally broke through his usual emotional emptiness.
The guests. The merchants and officials who'd been celebrating earlier, who'd screamed and fled when the assassination attempt was revealed, who should have been long gone from the manor by now.
They were returning. Walking back into the hall with relaxed expressions, some of them smiling, many of them talking amongst themselves with casual ease that suggested they weren't traumatized by having witnessed violence and murder.
One of the "merchants" who'd been speaking with Hu earlier walked past, and Zhung noticed something he hadn't seen before in the chaos—the man's expensive robes were costume quality rather than genuine silk, the embroidery too perfect, the cut too theatrical.
*Actors,* Zhung realized with cold horror. *They're all actors. The entire banquet, all the guests, everything we saw—it was staged. A performance designed specifically to lure assassins into revealing themselves.*
*Lu Shin didn't just prepare security against assassination. He created an entire elaborate trap, hiring performers to play the roles of guests, orchestrating the whole celebration as bait for people like us.*
*That's not genius. That's something beyond genius. That's the kind of paranoid thoroughness that requires weeks or months of preparation, significant financial investment, and absolute confidence that assassination attempts were coming.*
*How did he know? How could he have predicted with such certainty that Li Huang would send assassins during this specific event?*
*Unless...*
*Unless Lu Shin has intelligence sources we didn't account for. Spies in Li Huang's organization, or informants who reported our movements, or divination techniques that predicted the attack.*
*Or unless this entire situation—the business competition, the rising threat Lu Shin represented, even Li Huang's decision to send us—was manipulated from the beginning. Guided toward this exact outcome by someone playing a longer game than any of us understood.*
The "guests" filled the hall again, taking positions around the perimeter, and their expressions showed what they truly were—professional performers enjoying the successful completion of a challenging role, pleased with themselves for convincing four trained assassins that they were genuine merchants and officials.
Lu Shin stood in the center of it all, arms spread wide in theatrical welcome, his smile radiant with triumph.
"My friends!" he called out, his voice carrying that same commanding presence he'd shown during his earlier speech. "Thank you all for your exceptional performances tonight! You've helped me capture four dangerous assassins and demonstrate conclusively that I am not a man to be threatened with impunity!"
Applause erupted—genuine this time, not the polite social courtesy from before, but real appreciation from performers acknowledging a successful production.
Lu Shin laughed again, the sound echoing through the hall, and gestured grandly toward the four kneeling assassins.
"Look at them!" he declared with theatrical flair. "Four killers who thought they could walk into my home, into my celebration, and murder me without consequences! Four fools who underestimated Lu Shin and paid the price for their arrogance!"
More laughter from the assembled crowd. More applause. The atmosphere had transformed from tense post-combat situation to something approaching festival celebration, as if capturing assassins was entertainment rather than life-or-death struggle.
*This is a show,* Zhung understood. *Everything Lu Shin does is calculated for effect, for reputation, for building the image of someone too dangerous and too clever to threaten. He's not just defeating enemies—he's performing his invincibility for an audience that will spread stories throughout the region.*
*That's how you build power. Not just through strength or wealth, but through narrative control. Through making people believe you're unstoppable until that belief becomes reality.*
Lu Shin clapped his hands sharply, the sound cutting through the celebration like a knife.
"Servants!" he commanded. "Bring wine! The finest wine in all of Xia Lu Town! Tonight we celebrate not just business success, but victory over those who would destroy what we've built!"
Servants materialized from side rooms—actual servants this time, not actors, their movements efficient and professional as they carried trays laden with bottles and cups.
"This wine," Lu Shin announced with obvious pride, "comes from Master Chen's establishment in the merchant quarter—the finest wine maker in three provinces! He ages his vintages for twenty years in special cellars, uses grapes from the southern valleys, employs techniques passed down through seven generations! Each bottle costs more than most people earn in a month, and tonight, we drink it freely to celebrate our triumph!"
The servants began distributing wine, pouring generous amounts into cups made of actual jade rather than cheap ceramic, offering refreshment to everyone present—the actors, the guards who'd survived the combat, even some of the servants themselves.
Lu Shin took his own cup and raised it high, the jade catching lantern light and glowing with internal luminescence.
"To victory!" he declared. "To Lu Shin and the Lu family! To prosperity and power! To crushing our enemies and displaying their failure for all to see!"
"To Lu Shin!" the crowd echoed, their voices merging into a roar of approval.
They drank deeply, the expensive wine flowing freely, the celebration intensifying as alcohol and victory combined into intoxicating mixture.
Guards drank, relaxing now that the threat was neutralized and their lord was safe. Actors drank, enjoying their payment and the success of their performance. Servants drank when their duties allowed, partaking in the rare opportunity to consume such expensive luxury.
Only Wei Shao abstained, Zhung noticed. The security chief stood to the side with his cup untouched, his eyes still scanning for threats, his professional paranoia not diminished by apparent victory. He watched the four kneeling assassins with constant vigilance, ready to respond instantly if any of them attempted escape or suicide.
*Smart man,* Zhung acknowledged. *Wei Shao knows that battles aren't over until enemies are confirmed dead. That relaxing too soon gets people killed. That his job isn't finished just because Lu Shin is celebrating.*
*If circumstances were different, if we were on the same side, I could respect someone like that.*
The celebration continued for perhaps an hour, the wine flowing continuously, the laughter growing louder and less refined as sobriety gave way to drunkenness. Lu Shin moved through the crowd like a king among subjects, accepting congratulations, sharing jokes, basking in the adoration and fear his elaborate trap had generated.
Finally, when the wine had been sufficiently consumed and the crowd was properly intoxicated and celebratory, Lu Shin returned to stand before the four assassins.
His face was flushed from wine, his eyes bright with alcohol and triumph, his smile wider than ever.
He looked down at them—four failures, four examples, four lives about to be ended for the crime of threatening his rise to power.
"You came here to kill me," Lu Shin said, his voice carrying clearly despite the background noise of continued celebration. "You failed. And now you die."
He turned to Wei Shao, his expression shifting from celebratory to coldly practical.
"Take them outside," Lu Shin commanded, his voice carrying absolute authority despite his intoxication. "To the courtyard where everyone can see clearly."
He paused, his smile returning with cruel satisfaction.
"And cut off their heads."
The command hung in the air, final and irrevocable.
Execution. Public and humiliating. Death as spectacle and warning to anyone else who might consider threatening Lu Shin.
Wei Shao bowed slightly, acknowledging the order with professional detachment. "As you command, my lord."
Guards moved forward, grabbing the four kneeling assassins, hauling them to their feet with rough efficiency. Bai could barely stand, his legs giving out, requiring two guards to support his weight. Hu stood with visible effort, his pride forcing him upright despite exhaustion and injury. The driver rose smoothly, his masked face revealing nothing. And Zhung stood on his own power, his legs steady despite everything, his expression still empty.
They were dragged toward the doors that led to the manor's courtyard—the same ornamental garden they'd fled through earlier, now transformed into execution ground.
Behind them, the celebration continued, the crowd following to witness the finale of Lu Shin's elaborate performance.
The night air was cool against Zhung's face as they emerged into the courtyard. Lanterns had been positioned to illuminate a clear space near the center, creating a stage for what was about to happen.
*This is how it ends,* Zhung thought with cold acceptance. *Not in glorious battle. Not achieving anything meaningful. Just captured and executed as examples, our deaths serving someone else's narrative, our failure becoming part of Lu Shin's legend.*
*The Broken Path breaks here. Permanently.*
Guards forced them to their knees again, this time in a line facing the assembled crowd. Wei Shao stepped forward, drawing his sword—the same blade that had nearly killed Bai earlier, now cleaned and sharpened, ready to serve as instrument of execution.
Lu Shin stood to the side, watching with satisfaction, his expensive wine cup still in hand.
"Any last words?" he asked with theatrical magnanimity, as if offering mercy while actually extending the performance.
Bai couldn't speak, his punctured lungs making words impossible, only managing wet breathing sounds that carried the taste of death.
Hu spat blood onto the ground—defiance in the only form left to him—but said nothing.
The driver remained silent behind his mask, revealing nothing.
And Zhung simply stared ahead with empty eyes, his mind already withdrawing from the present moment, preparing for the end with the same cold detachment he'd shown throughout his short, violent life.
"Nothing?" Lu Shin laughed. "Well then. Wei Shao—begin with the white-haired one. He was their leader. Let him die first, knowing his mission failed completely."
Wei Shao moved behind Bai, raising his sword in a high guard position, preparing for the downward stroke that would separate head from body.
The crowd fell silent, watching with morbid fascination.
The night held its breath.
And the execution began.
---
**End of Chapter 26**