Rain falls like silver threads over the border town of Huyan. Wooden shutters rattle against their hinges, and puddles form along uneven cobblestones, reflecting lantern light in trembling rings. The air smells of wet clay, charcoal smoke, and faint iron. Most of the town sleeps, huddled in damp rooms, but three figures move silently in the mist—until only two remain. The third lies twisted, face pale, eyes wide.
No one saw him arrive. No one saw him leave. The stranger walks through the square as if it belongs to him, yet belongs to no one. His robes, black and light, flap like a restless shadow. The water clings to them, but does not weigh him down. His boots leave shallow impressions that vanish within minutes; even the rain erases what little trace he makes.
He does not look at the corpses. He does not check the alleyways. He does not nod at the trembling survivors in the window. He walks. And the town, in its muted way, begins to understand—he is no guest of theirs.
A boy peeks from behind a shutter. "Who… who is that?" His voice trembles like the candle flame in his hands.
The wind, or something like it, answers. Cloth flutters. Footsteps vanish. The boy turns, and the stranger is already gone.
By morning, rumors begin. They always do. Some say he is a wandering swordsman of an extinct sect, a man who carries the deaths of his enemies in his eyes. Others whisper that he is the wind itself, sent to judge the town for some unseen crime. Nobody is certain.
Inside the ruined inn, an innkeeper counts the corpses. His hands shake. "Three dead," he mutters. "Three dead… and no footprints beyond the square. No one saw a thing." His voice falters as if speaking aloud invites the wind into the room.
Outside, Shen Feng stops at the edge of town. Rain runs down his face, but he does not feel it. His eyes scan the horizon, not for pursuit, but for direction. A flock of crows rises from the outskirts, wings wet and black, scattering as if even they sense the weight of him.
He pulls a thin blade from his belt. It is short, light, perfectly balanced. Not beautiful. Not ornate. Just a tool. He runs a finger along its edge. Clean. Precise. The rain washes it, but the blade will remember every drop, every movement, as if it records the world silently.
A rider approaches, horse hooves splashing in the mud. He does not look up. He does not greet. He simply steps aside. The rider senses the shadow before he sees it, and instinct tells him: this is no ordinary man. Every instinct screams to flee, but it is already too late. No one leaves, not unmarked.
Shen Feng does not strike. Not yet. The wind moves through the square, and the rider stumbles on his own fear. A scream, brief and strangled, echoes before it is swallowed by rain. When the townsfolk emerge, only the horse is left, rearing and wild-eyed. Its rider has vanished.
No one knows how it happened. No one will ever know.
He walks toward the north gate. Behind him, lanterns burn low, water dripping from eaves, and whispers coil like smoke around every corner: The man… the stranger… the wind….
He does not slow. He does not pause. He will not wait for names, for thanks, for fear.
The boy at the shutter will remember him, but only as a shadow, a story half-formed. The innkeeper will curse him, but only in whispers. And in the alleys of Huyan, long after the rain ceases, people will say: "The Wind passed through here last night. Count your blessings if it spared you."
Shen Feng walks. And in the quiet aftermath, in the stillness of a town scarred but unbroken, the legend began, as all legends do—not with words, but with the weight of what could not be explained, the echo of inevitability, and the simple, unalterable truth: the wind had passed, and nothing would ever be the same again.
The town wakes slowly, drenched in gray light and uneasy whispers. Huyan's cobblestones glisten under the early sun, slick with last night's rain. Children peek from behind doors, eyes wide. Doors that should be locked swing open. Windows remain shuttered. Something invisible hangs in the air, like a drawn bowstring waiting to snap.
No one speaks his name. No one dares.
They call him "the shadow," "the stranger," or "the wind." Every rumor drifts differently, none the same.
In the market square, a merchant finds his stall in ruin. Spilled rice, splintered crates, a lone knife planted upright in a barrel. No one sees the hand that placed it. No one heard a step. He mutters prayers under his breath, but the words do not chase away the chill.
A scream pierces the air, sudden and sharp. It comes from the alley behind the inn. Merchants and townsfolk freeze. From the corner of their eyes, they see movement—not human, not animal. Something slips between the buildings like water through reeds. Cloth flutters against the walls, moving in impossible directions.
Shen Feng is already there. He does not run. He does not advance. He simply exists where the danger is, and danger cannot exist where he stands.
A man—thick-shouldered, careless—draws a knife, thinking to protect a child caught in the alley. The movement is slow, deliberate, foolish. Shen Feng turns his head slightly. A gust of wind follows his motion. The knife bends against an invisible force. The man stumbles back as though struck by something unseen.
The child does not scream. Children sense nothing tangible, only the space between heartbeats, the quiet pause that carries weight.
No one sees Shen Feng move. The world registers only consequences: the man falls, unhurt, but trembling. The alley is silent again. The child's hand clutches nothing, but its palm is wet. Fear, not rain, drips from his fingers.
By noon, the market is empty. Stories spread in whispers, floating faster than the wind:
He can vanish between shadows.
He can strike without touching.
He does not need steel; the air obeys him.
None are true. All are correct.
A group of merchants meets near the north gate. They speak of paying someone to follow him, trap him, end him. Their words carry authority, but no courage. Even the smallest child walking the streets can feel the impossibility of the task.
A stray dog barks. It yelps, turns, and flees. Animals sense what humans cannot articulate: Shen Feng is not human in the usual sense. He is consequence.
By late afternoon, the wind changes direction. It twists through Huyan like a whisper of silk across stone. The same gust brushes the edge of the town square, lifting scraps of paper and a few wet leaves. People shiver. Somewhere, a bell tolls for no reason. The sound vibrates in the chest of every witness, though no bell hangs nearby.
Shen Feng does not pause. He walks along the riverbank. Mud squelches underfoot, but he leaves no mark. A small boat drifts loose from its mooring. Water ripples outward, carrying the faint scent of reeds. Something like recognition flickers across his eyes—brief, almost imperceptible. A memory. A choice. He does not stop.
On the far bank, a young boy imitates him. Footsteps silent, robe flapping in the wind. The boy crouches behind a boulder, trying to mirror the stranger's motion. When Shen Feng reaches the edge, he pauses just long enough for the boy to see him clearly:
Robes black as night, but light as air
Eyes sharp, red-brown, assessing everything without resting
Hands relaxed, yet ready to split stone or flesh
Then he is gone. The boy freezes, as if the world itself has pulled back its breath. No footprints, no rustling, no sound—only the whisper of cloth against the wind.
A merchant who watches from across the river mutters: "He… he cannot be followed. He is… impossible." His words are not accusation. They are despair.
Shen Feng continues north. Each step measured, deliberate, untraceable. He passes through a grove, water dripping from twisted branches, crows lifting into gray sky. One calls, but he does not glance. Even the birds recognize the wind does not linger.
He passes under the bridge that connects the two halves of the town. A drunkard yells something, meaningless words about spirits or punishment. Shen Feng does not pause. But a subtle shift occurs: the drunkard feels the air bend against his chest, as though the wind itself is warning him. He falls silent, trembling in place.
No one can describe him. No one can predict him. Not even those who claim to know his legend can speak with certainty. And that is why Huyan, already soaked in fear from the previous night, will remember today for decades:
The wind brushed through the town square.
Cloth moved where no hand was.
Shadows carried the weight of judgment.
By the time dusk comes, the market is deserted. Lanterns flicker in shallow puddles. Doors remain closed. No one eats. No one sleeps. The rumor spreads faster than sunlight fades: He moves like wind, he strikes like consequence, and he has no name.
Shen Feng walks beyond the river, toward the hills where even the merchants' whispers cannot follow. Behind him, the town hums quietly with terror. Children awake, trembling in beds, recounting the impossible motions they saw. Women pray silently, crossing themselves. Men wipe their knives and wonder: Who is this man? What does he want? Why do we fear him without a reason?
He does not answer. He never does.
The wind changes again, lifting droplets from the river into mist. Shen Feng disappears into it, leaving only the memory of movement and a lesson unspoken: When the wind passes, nothing remains—except what it chooses to leave.
And that is enough.