Chen Yu returned as the sun was nearing the horizon.
The door to the room opened slowly. Cold night air slipped inside, carrying with it the lingering scent of blood that had yet to fade from the man's body.
His robe was torn in several places, dark crimson stains clinging to his sleeves and boots.
Yet his steps were steady.
There was no hesitation.
No wavering.
The task had been completed.
He closed the door behind him and dropped to one knee on the wooden floor.
"It's done," Chen Yu said quietly.
There was no long explanation. No justification. No apology.
Mo Zhaoyuan stood by the window, his back facing the room.
The light of dusk fell upon Lin Shuyuan's face—the face he now wore—casting sharp shadows that made his expression appear colder than before.
He did not turn around immediately.
"No survivors?" he asked flatly.
"None," Chen Yu replied without hesitation. "I made sure of it."
Several seconds passed in silence.
Outside, faint footsteps and distant conversations from the lower floor of the inn could still be heard.
The world continued as usual, as if several lives had not just been erased from existence.
Mo Zhaoyuan finally turned around.
His gaze swept over Chen Yu from head to toe—not to check for injuries, but to confirm one thing.
Whether this man was still useful.
"Are you injured?" he asked.
"Only minor wounds," Chen Yu replied. "They won't affect the journey."
"Good."
Mo Zhaoyuan walked to the table and adjusted the clothes he now wore—clothes that fully belonged to Lin Shuyuan. His movements were calm, as if the blood spilled outside the city had nothing to do with him.
"We can't stay here any longer," he said. "This inn has served its purpose."
Chen Yu nodded.
"What are your orders, Young Master?"
Mo Zhaoyuan paused briefly.
Not to decide whether they would return—that was already certain.
What he considered was how.
"Find a carriage driver," he said at last.
"Not one of our people."
Chen Yu raised his head. "An outsider?"
"Yes," Mo Zhaoyuan replied. "Someone who doesn't ask questions, has no connections, and doesn't care about the affairs of great families."
He added coldly, "If necessary, pay generously. If they still hesitate, find someone poorer."
Chen Yu immediately understood.
The poor value money.
The greedy value survival.
Both were easy to control.
"I understand," he said as he stood. "Should we depart tonight?"
Mo Zhaoyuan glanced at the corpse of Lin Shuyuan lying in the corner of the room, covered with a thin cloth.
"No," he said quietly.
"We leave tomorrow morning."
Chen Yu hesitated briefly, then nodded.
"Understood."
As he turned to leave, Mo Zhaoyuan's voice stopped him.
"Chen Yu."
He froze.
"You severed your path of retreat today," Mo Zhaoyuan said without emotion. "From now on, you have no master but me."
"And take a sack. Cremate Lin Shuyuan's body," Mo Zhaoyuan added.
Chen Yu neither smiled nor protested.
He clenched his fist and bowed deeply.
"Order received."
The door closed once more.
Mo Zhaoyuan was alone.
He looked into the mirror—Lin Shuyuan's face, Lin Shuyuan's name, Lin Shuyuan's future.
Yet the will standing behind all of it belonged to no one from the Lin family.
"The journey home…" he murmured.
"…has only just begun."
He took a small dagger and cut into his right shoulder.
His face did not even twitch, as if pain meant nothing.
He wiped away the blood and wrapped the wound carefully.
---
Morning arrived without ceremony.
A thin mist lingered as the inn slowly came back to life. Wooden doors opened, hurried footsteps echoed, and the scent of warm porridge mixed with damp earth filled the courtyard.
A carriage had been prepared.
It was plain, bearing no family insignia. The wood was old, but the wheels and axle were well maintained. A dark brown horse stood calmly—no warhorse, but strong enough for a long journey.
The driver was a middle-aged man with a rough face and eyes far too cautious for an ordinary laborer.
His clothes were worn, but his hands moved skillfully as he checked the reins.
He spoke little.
Which was precisely why he was chosen.
Mo Zhaoyuan exited first.
He was now fully dressed as Lin Shuyuan—neatly arranged robes, a simple engraved belt, and the composed expression of a young master from a great clan.
There were no obvious injuries. Only a faintly bandaged wound beneath his clothes.
Anyone seeing him now would never believe the original owner of this face had died the night before.
Chen Yu followed one step behind.
Sword in hand, posture straight—exactly as a guard should be.
Yet there was one difference only he could feel.
He no longer stood to protect.
He stood to serve.
"Destination?" the driver asked curtly, without turning around.
"Northern Plains," Chen Yu replied. "Northern Sword Clan."
The driver paused briefly, clearly recognizing the name, then nodded.
"Long journey," he said. "Payment up front."
Chen Yu tossed a small pouch of silver.
The driver caught it, weighed it quickly, then climbed onto the carriage without another word.
No questions.
No hesitation.
Mo Zhaoyuan stepped inside.
The interior was narrow but clean. Wooden seats lined with thin cloth, just enough for two. Morning light filtered through the curtain, casting shifting shadows as the carriage moved.
Chen Yu sat opposite him, back straight, gaze forward.
The carriage began to roll.
The wheels creaked softly as they left the inn behind.
For a time, neither spoke.
Chen Yu noticed the bandage beneath Mo Zhaoyuan's right shoulder from within.
He was curious—but he did not ask.
Only the sound of hooves and the gentle vibration of the road accompanied them.
Mo Zhaoyuan closed his eyes briefly.
Not to rest.
But to adjust.
Every movement. Every habit. Every breath.
All of it had to become Lin Shuyuan.
"Chen Yu," he said at last.
"Yes, Young Master."
"Have you thought about what you'll say when we arrive?"
Chen Yu looked at him. "About what?"
"About my injury," Mo Zhaoyuan replied calmly. "About why we returned early. About why several guards didn't come back."
Chen Yu fell silent.
After a moment, he said, "I'll say we were ambushed on our way back. They died protecting you."
"Where?"
"A mountain pass," Chen Yu answered. "No witnesses."
Mo Zhaoyuan opened his eyes.
His gaze was sharp, but not accusatory.
"Plausible," he said. "But too simple."
"If you say only that, the clan head will dispatch experienced investigators."
"And then we'll be exposed."
Chen Yu tensed slightly.
"An enemy that's too obvious makes people stop thinking," Mo Zhaoyuan continued. "I need a reason that makes them think—but not too deeply."
He tapped the side of the carriage lightly.
"Add one detail."
Chen Yu waited.
"Say we found traces of a strange poison," Mo Zhaoyuan said. "Non-lethal, but damaging to the meridians."
"And after the ambush by the Black Forest Bandits, we were attacked again by mountain bandits on our return," he continued. "The exhausted guards couldn't hold out."
"Forgive me, Young Master," Chen Yu finally asked, unable to suppress his curiosity. "What about the wound on your shoulder?"
"Oh? This?" Mo Zhaoyuan pointed to his right shoulder.
"Say I was struck by an arrow during the fight with Black Forest, due to the other guards' negligence—while you were focused on their leader."
Without waiting for Chen Yu to respond, he added, "That way, the clan head's anger will fall on their failure. He won't investigate further."
Chen Yu nodded slowly. "That would make your injury seem natural."
Mo Zhaoyuan paused.
"Repeat it."
Chen Yu recited the entire sequence flawlessly.
Only then did Mo Zhaoyuan nod.
Outside, the sun climbed higher, illuminating the long, empty road ahead.
Mo Zhaoyuan parted the curtain slightly and looked forward.
The journey back to the Northern Sword Clan was not the end.
It was the entrance to the real battlefield.
And this time—
He had no intention of leaving as the same person.