Looking at the setting sun, Zhung could only lightly laugh—a broken sound that held no real humor, just the bitter acknowledgment of survival purchased with blood and sacrifice. As the sun started to set, painting the cart and the road and the autumn trees in shades of orange and gold, and as the trees of autumn began to sway in the evening breeze, he thought about beginnings and endings, about how mornings could be fine like aged wine but evenings carried the weight of everything that had happened between dawn and dusk.
*Then the morning must be fine like a leaf,* he reflected, watching the light fade. *Maybe even a tragic one. A leaf that falls beautifully but is still dead, still separated from the tree, still destined to decay into nothing.*
*Like Jiangsu.*
*Like everyone who gets used as a tool and discarded when broken.*
Sighing his breath, Zhung shifted position slightly in the back of the stolen cart—borrowed, really, taken from an abandoned farm they'd passed two days ago when Hu had realized they couldn't continue on foot with two injured companions.
The cart creaked with the movement, wheels turning steadily on the dirt road leading southwest away from Xia Lu Town, away from pursuit, toward Crimson Vale City where Li Huang maintained contacts and safe houses and the infrastructure needed to report mission success.
Hu sat at the front, controlling the reins with mechanical efficiency, his posture rigid despite obvious exhaustion. He'd become restless over the past three days—sleeping only during daylight hours when visibility made ambush less likely, but remaining wide awake at night, his eyes scanning the darkness constantly, one hand always near his weapons, paranoid vigilance born from barely surviving multiple assassination attempts and knowing Wei Shao's hunters were still searching.
*He's guarding for survival,* Zhung observed. *Not just his own—ours. Taking responsibility for keeping us alive because Bai's unconscious and I'm barely functional and he's the only one capable of fighting if pursuit catches up.*
*That's leadership. Not the kind Bai demonstrated through cold authority and tactical genius, but the kind that comes from genuinely caring whether your companions live or die.*
Beside Zhung, Bai lay wrapped in blankets, still unconscious but breathing steadily, his pale skin actually showing slight color now—an improvement from the death-like pallor of three days ago. The foreign essence Zhung had transferred was keeping him stable, buying time for his body to heal the punctured lung and internal damage Wei Shao's sword had caused.
*He'll probably survive,* Zhung calculated with clinical detachment. *Another day or two and he should regain consciousness. Another week and he'll be mobile. Another month and he'll be combat-ready again.*
*If we can get him proper medical treatment in Crimson Vale. If infection doesn't set in. If we survive the journey.*
*Too many variables. Too much uncertainty.*
The cart continued its steady progress, wheels turning with rhythmic creaking, the landscape passing by in evening shadows—forests and fields, occasional abandoned farmhouses, the wilderness that separated civilization's pockets in this region.
And Zhung sat in the back, his broken ribs wrapped in makeshift bandages Hu had fashioned from torn cloth, his left shoulder still containing the arrow they'd decided was too dangerous to remove without proper tools, his body a catalog of injuries that should have killed him but somehow hadn't.
*I survived,* his thoughts acknowledged for perhaps the thousandth time since escaping Xia Lu Town. *Again. Through impossible circumstances. Through others' sacrifices.*
*Jiangsu died so I could live. Threw himself into the fireball. Used his final strength to push me to safety. Gave me his technique book and his story and his name before his skeleton collapsed into bones.*
*Why? Why did he do that?*
The question had haunted Zhung for three days, circling through his mind during rest periods and travel, refusing to resolve into satisfactory answer.
*We worked together for two weeks during scouting, but I never really understood him. Never saw past the mask. Never recognized what he was dealing with until those final moments when he revealed everything.*
His hand moved unconsciously to his wolf pelt, feeling the weight of the technique book hidden within—*Shadow Decay*, Li Jiangsu's final gift and legacy.
*He said I was like him. Another tool being used by Li Huang. Another weapon deployed until broken. He saw himself reflected in me and decided that meant something.*
*Maybe it did. Maybe recognizing shared brokenness creates connection stronger than friendship built on happiness.*
Zhung's dark eyes unfocused, his mind drifting back through memories of the past two weeks—the scouting phase, before the banquet, before everything went catastrophically wrong.
Before Jiangsu died.
When he'd still been "the driver," masked and mysterious, someone Zhung had worked alongside without truly seeing.
---
**Day Five — Morning**
They'd been positioned across from the Lu manor, observing the morning guard rotation. Zhung had been standing in a shop doorway, pretending to wait for the establishment to open while actually watching the manor gates with careful attention.
Jiangsu had materialized beside him like a ghost—that unnerving ability he had to move silently, to appear without warning.
"Lovely morning for surveillance," Jiangsu had said, his muffled voice carrying from behind the wooden mask. "Weather's perfect. Guards look alert but not paranoid. Target's probably having breakfast with his family, completely unaware that four people across the street are counting his guards and timing his schedule."
Zhung had glanced at him briefly, then returned his attention to the manor.
"You talk too much during operations."
"And you don't talk enough. Balance." Jiangsu had shifted position, leaning against the doorway with deceptive casualness. "Besides, standing in complete silence for hours gets boring. Little commentary makes the time pass."
"Commentary is distracting."
"Silence is oppressive." Jiangsu had tilted his masked head slightly. "We could compromise—I'll talk less if you talk more. Fair trade."
"No."
"See, that's exactly the problem. One-word responses. Very efficient, yes, but terrible for team bonding."
Zhung had turned to look at him directly, his dark eyes flat with annoyance.
"We're not here to bond. We're here to gather intelligence for an assassination. Professional distance is appropriate."
"Professional distance is lonely." Jiangsu's muffled voice had carried something that might have been amusement or might have been something sadder. "And we're going to be working together for two weeks. Might as well make it tolerable."
A guard had exited the manor at that moment, and both of them had fallen silent, watching, noting the timing and route with professional attention.
When the guard disappeared around the corner, Jiangsu had spoken again:
"You're young for this work. Sixteen?"
"Seventeen soon," Zhung had lied automatically, adding a year because people took him more seriously when they thought he was older.
"Seventeen. Still young." Jiangsu's masked face had turned toward him. "How'd you end up in assassination? Family business? Debt? Just naturally gifted at killing people?"
"None of your concern."
"Fair enough. Everyone's got their own tragic backstory in this profession." His fingers had drummed against his leg in a nervous pattern. "Mine involves poor life choices and even poorer luck. Yours probably similar, just with different specific details."
Zhung hadn't responded, hoping silence would discourage further conversation.
It hadn't worked.
"You know what I like about mornings like this?" Jiangsu had continued, apparently comfortable with one-sided dialogue. "The way the light hits the buildings. Everything looks almost beautiful before the day gets complicated. Before people start their schemes and conflicts. Just architecture and sunlight and potential."
He'd paused, then added more quietly:
"Won't last, of course. Nothing beautiful ever does. But it's nice while it's here."
Zhung had glanced at him again, noting the way Jiangsu's hands occasionally trembled before being forcibly stilled, the way his breathing sometimes hitched as if in pain, small details that suggested something wrong beneath the surface.
"Are you injured?" Zhung had asked, his tone flat but carrying genuine curiosity.
"Always." Jiangsu's response had been immediate and cheerful. "Chronically, perpetually, inevitably injured. It's part of my charm."
"That's not charming."
"You're right. It's the opposite of charming. But 'chronically injured' sounds better than... other descriptions."
Another guard rotation had passed, and they'd logged the information in silence.
Then Jiangsu had straightened from his lean, preparing to move to a different observation position.
"You're disturbed by something," he'd observed, his muffled voice carrying unexpected perception. "Not by the mission—you seem comfortable with assassination work. But by something else. Something you're trying very hard not to think about."
Zhung's jaw had tightened fractionally—the only sign of reaction.
"Everyone carries things they don't want to think about. That's not unique."
"True. But most people aren't sixteen and already this comfortable with planning murder. That suggests specific kinds of things being avoided."
Jiangsu had turned to leave, then paused.
"Just remember—whatever you're running from, whatever made you this way, it follows you regardless of how fast you move or how cold you make yourself. Can't outrun your own mind."
Then he'd vanished into the morning crowd, leaving Zhung with observations that felt invasive and uncomfortably accurate.
---
**Day Seven — Afternoon**
They'd been sitting in a tea house, sharing a table and pretending to be merchant associates while watching the Lu manor's service entrance.
Jiangsu had ordered wine despite the early hour. When it arrived, he'd lifted his mask slightly—just enough to drink—but kept his face concealed. Zhung had caught the briefest glimpse of something gray beneath the wood before looking away instinctively.
"Curious?" Jiangsu had asked, lowering the mask back into place.
"No."
"Liar. Everyone's curious about what's under the mask. It's human nature." He'd taken another sip of wine, the motion practiced and efficient. "But I appreciate the polite fiction of disinterest."
They'd sat in silence for several minutes, both watching the service entrance, noting delivery schedules and guard interactions.
Then Jiangsu had spoken again, his voice quieter than usual:
"Do you ever think about how strange this profession is? We spend weeks learning everything about someone—their schedule, their habits, their family, their dreams—and then we kill them. It's almost intimate in a disturbing way."
"It's just information gathering," Zhung had replied. "Nothing intimate about it."
"Spoken like someone who's never really thought about what we do." Jiangsu had leaned back in his chair. "We're going to end Lu Shin's existence. Everything he's built, everyone he loves, all his plans for the future—gone because someone paid us money. That's profound in a terrible way."
"It's a job."
"It's murder dressed up as profession." Jiangsu's fingers had tapped against his wine cup. "Don't misunderstand—I'm not developing moral qualms. Just observing the strangeness of it all."
A delivery cart had arrived at the service entrance, and both of them had turned their full attention to observing, logging details, analyzing security responses.
When the cart departed, Jiangsu had continued as if there'd been no interruption:
"You know what's funny? Most people in this town are going about their normal lives, thinking tomorrow will be basically like today. Comfortable assumptions about continuity. And they're mostly right—their tomorrows will be similar to their todays."
He'd gestured vaguely toward the manor.
"But Lu Shin? His tomorrow is going to be dramatically different from his today. Because we're going to make sure of that. We're the discontinuity. The break in expected patterns. The thing that destroys comfortable assumptions."
"You have a strange way of thinking about missions," Zhung had observed.
"I have a strange way of thinking about everything." Jiangsu's muffled voice had carried something that might have been self-deprecation. "Comes with the territory of being... well. Being me."
His hand had moved unconsciously toward his left arm, rubbing it briefly before stopping the gesture with visible effort.
"Does your arm hurt?" Zhung had asked, noting the repeated motion.
"Always." The response had been immediate and matter-of-fact. "But pain's just information. Doesn't mean much unless you let it."
"That's not how most people think about pain."
"I'm not most people." Jiangsu had stood, preparing to leave. "Neither are you, for that matter. Normal sixteen-year-olds don't sit in tea houses planning assassinations without visible emotion."
He'd paused at the table's edge.
"We're both abnormal, kid. Just in different flavors. Try not to judge mine too harshly when yours is equally strange."
Then he'd left, and Zhung had sat alone with thoughts about masks—both literal and metaphorical—and what people hid beneath them.
---
**Day Ten — Evening**
They'd been walking back to the Jade Moon Inn after a full day of observation, both exhausted, the streets quieter as evening approached.
"Question," Jiangsu had said suddenly. "Do you like sunsets?"
Zhung had given him a flat look.
"What kind of question is that?"
"A simple one. Do you like watching the sun go down? Find it aesthetically pleasing? Or are you one of those people who's indifferent to natural beauty?"
"I don't think about it."
"That's not an answer."
Zhung had sighed, recognizing Jiangsu wasn't going to drop this.
"Fine. Sunsets are... acceptable. They mark the transition between operational hours. Useful for timing purposes."
"Useful for timing purposes," Jiangsu had repeated with obvious amusement. "That's possibly the least poetic way anyone has ever described a sunset. Congratulations on your complete lack of sentiment."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
They'd walked in silence for another block, the western sky gradually turning orange and gold as the sun descended toward the horizon.
"I like them," Jiangsu had said quietly. "Sunsets. Something about endings being beautiful instead of violent. About day giving way to night without struggle. Just natural transition."
His masked face had tilted upward, watching the changing colors.
"When I was younger—before all this—I used to sit and watch sunsets for hours. Found them calming. Proof that some things change gracefully instead of catastrophically."
"That's sentimental," Zhung had observed.
"Yes. Embarrassingly so." Jiangsu had lowered his gaze. "But everyone's allowed some sentiment. Even people like us."
"People like us?"
"People who do terrible things for money. People who've accepted that we're probably dying young and violently. People who wear masks—literal or metaphorical—because showing our real selves would be too complicated."
He'd turned to look at Zhung directly.
"You wear a mask too, you know. Not wood like mine. But that empty expression, that cold detachment, that's just a different kind of covering. Hiding whatever's underneath."
"There's nothing underneath," Zhung had said flatly.
"Another lie. There's always something underneath. Otherwise you wouldn't work so hard to hide it."
They'd reached the inn, and Jiangsu had paused at the entrance.
"Just... try to remember you're human occasionally. Before the coldness becomes so habitual that you forget what warmth feels like."
Then he'd entered the inn, leaving Zhung standing in the street, watching the sunset continue its gradual descent, wondering why Jiangsu's observations bothered him more than they should.
---
**Day Thirteen — Afternoon**
One day before the banquet. Their scouting was complete, plans finalized, nothing left but waiting for the operation to begin.
They'd been sitting on a rooftop in the merchant quarter, eating simple food, watching the town's afternoon business with the detached interest of people who'd spent two weeks studying every detail.
"Tomorrow," Jiangsu had said quietly. "Everything comes together tomorrow. Either we succeed and Lu Shin dies, or we fail and probably die ourselves."
"Yes."
"You're not nervous?"
"Nervousness doesn't improve performance," Zhung had replied. "So I don't allow it."
"That's... incredibly unhealthy, but also impressive in a disturbing way."
Jiangsu had set aside his food, his attention turning toward the western horizon where the sun was beginning its descent.
"I hope it's a nice sunset tomorrow. After everything. Win or lose, live or die, I hope there's at least a beautiful sunset to mark the occasion."
"Why does that matter?"
"Because endings should have beauty if possible. Because if I'm going to die tomorrow—which is statistically likely—I'd prefer it happen during something aesthetically pleasing rather than just violence and chaos."
Zhung had turned to look at him, studying the wooden mask that never came off during work, wondering what expression lay beneath it.
"You think you're going to die tomorrow."
"I think there's a high probability. The mission's dangerous. We're outnumbered. Things could go wrong in a dozen different ways." Jiangsu's muffled voice had carried calm acceptance. "But that's the profession. We take risks. Sometimes they pay off. Sometimes they don't."
He'd stood, preparing to leave the rooftop.
"If I do die tomorrow—if things go wrong and I don't make it—just... remember I was here. That I existed. That I was more than just a mask and a technique."
"That's a morbid thing to say the day before a mission," Zhung had observed.
"Morbid is realistic when you're an assassin." Jiangsu had started walking toward the roof edge. "We live with death constantly. Might as well acknowledge it honestly instead of pretending we're invincible."
He'd paused at the edge, looking back.
"You're going to survive tomorrow, Zhung. I'm fairly certain of that. You've got that quality—that stubborn refusal to die no matter what gets thrown at you. And when you do survive, when you're walking away from whatever chaos tomorrow brings, try to remember that not everyone makes it. That survival has costs beyond just physical injuries."
"I don't understand what you're trying to say."
"You will. Eventually." Jiangsu had turned away. "Just... try not to become so cold that you forget how to be human. That's the real death—not the physical kind, but the internal kind where you stop caring about anything."
Then he'd dropped off the roof edge, disappearing with his usual ghost-like movement, leaving Zhung alone with warnings he didn't fully understand and wouldn't until it was too late.
---
The cart continued rolling through the autumn evening, wheels turning steadily, carrying three survivors toward uncertain futures.
Zhung sat in the back, clutching the technique book through his wolf pelt, understanding now—too late—all the things Jiangsu had been trying to communicate through those two weeks of working together.
The dark observations weren't just commentary—they were someone processing their own mortality, finding meaning in missions they knew might be their last.
The questions about death and sunsets weren't morbid curiosity—they were someone making peace with their ending, trying to ensure it wouldn't be completely meaningless.
The warnings about staying human weren't judgment—they were someone who'd struggled with the same coldness trying to help another person avoid the same mistakes.
*He was dying the entire time,* Zhung realized with sharp clarity. *Not just from the decay—which I knew nothing about—but mentally preparing himself for the end. Processing. Accepting. Trying to create meaning in whatever time remained.*
*And I was too cold, too focused on the mission, too buried in my own detachment to recognize what I was seeing.*
*He tried to connect. Tried to warn me. Tried to share observations that mattered to him.*
*And I dismissed it all as distraction and sentiment and things that didn't serve the mission.*
Tears ran down Zhung's face again—hot and unexpected, grief mixing with regret and the terrible understanding of opportunities missed.
*I could have known him better. Could have asked questions instead of shutting down conversations. Could have seen past the mask—not literally, but metaphorically—to the person struggling beneath.*
*But I didn't. I kept my professional distance. Maintained my cold detachment. Treated him as just another team member instead of recognizing a kindred broken spirit.*
*And now he's dead. Bones resting against a tree in a forest I'll probably never find again. His story told only in those final desperate minutes when he had no choice but to reveal everything because time was running out.*
"You alright back there?" Hu's rough voice called from the front of the cart. "You've been quiet for hours. Even more than usual."
"I'm fine," Zhung replied automatically, his voice thick with tears he couldn't quite control.
"You're crying again."
"I'm remembering."
"Remembering what?"
"How I worked alongside Jiangsu for two weeks and never really saw him. Never understood what he was dealing with. Never recognized that he was trying to connect with someone who might understand."
Hu was silent for a long moment.
"He was good at hiding it," Hu finally said. "The mask. The humor. The casual observations that seemed random. He built layers of protection so people wouldn't see the truth unless he chose to reveal it."
"I should have looked harder."
"Maybe. Or maybe he didn't want you to see until he was ready to show you. Some people need their masks. Need the protection of secrets until the moment comes to share them."
Hu's voice grew rougher.
"What matters is that you were there at the end. That you listened when he finally did reveal himself. That you're remembering him now as a person instead of just a teammate who died."
"He deserved better than my cold indifference."
"Probably. But he chose to save you anyway. Chose to see potential in a sixteen-year-old with empty eyes and emotional walls. That means something about how he saw you, regardless of how you treated him."
The cart rolled on, the landscape darkening as night deepened, stars emerging in patterns unchanged by human tragedy.
Zhung sat with his memories and his grief and his regrets, holding a technique book that represented both warning and gift—the legacy of a man he'd worked beside without truly knowing until those final moments when everything was revealed.
*I'll honor you by learning what you tried to teach me,* Zhung promised silently. *Not just the technique. But the lessons about staying human. About finding meaning even in terrible circumstances. About connecting with others instead of maintaining perfect cold isolation.*
*I'll try, Jiangsu. I can't promise I'll succeed—my damage runs deep, maybe too deep to fully heal.*
*But I'll try.*
*Because you deserved someone who tried. Who saw you. Who remembered you as more than just a masked weapon who happened to die well.*
The autumn night embraced them, gentle and indifferent, as the cart carried three survivors toward tomorrow and whatever it might bring.
And somewhere behind them, in a forest clearing they'd left days ago, Jiangsu's bones rested unmarked but not forgotten—a monument to someone who'd worn masks to survive but chose to remove them in his final moments so at least one person would know the truth.
The trees swayed in the darkness.
The stars watched with ancient disinterest.
And Zhung held a book and remembered a companion he'd failed to know until it was too late to matter.
---
**End of Chapter 33**