The road down the mountain narrows as it descends, swallowed gradually by mist. Pines crowd closer together, their needles dripping steadily, releasing a resinous scent that clings to the air. The rain fades to a light drizzle, but the ground remains slick and treacherous. Every step Zhen Yan takes presses into softened earth, yet his balance never falters.
The black metal token rests inside his sleeve.
He turns his eyes away, not wanting to look at it anymore. Its presence is enough—cold and heavy, like a promise that cannot be returned.
The elder's words linger, unwelcome but persistent.
A petal.
Zhen Yan has killed many men since the annihilation of the Zhen Family. Bandits, hired blades, wandering assassins who thought a lone traveler an easy mark. None of them mattered. They were only noises along the road, obstacles cleared without a single thought. If there's a must to say, then these people are nothing but fools who think life is too long, and are only finding someone to help shorten it.
But this is different. This is a thread.
The mist thickens as the road curves into a shallow valley. The forest opens slightly, revealing a stretch of broken stone markers half-buried in moss and soil. Once, this may have been a boundary—a warning perhaps, or a memorial. Now, it is forgotten just like so many things, as if they had never existed or happened.
Zhen Yan slows. The wind shifts. Footsteps of rather than careless or hurried, are controlled.
Three. No—four. They fan out instinctively, keeping distance, using the trees for cover. Their breathing is measured. Their movements disciplined. Not villagers. Not bandits. Zhen Yan continues walking as though unaware. He lets them believe it.
The first dagger leaves his sleeve without sound. It arcs low and fast, then vanishing into the fog. A muffled grunt follows—surprised, brief. One down, and only a few more to go.
The remaining three reacts instantly. Steel whispers free from sheaths. Killing intent sharpens the air—not wild or emotional, but cold and deliberate.
"Windshadow," one of them murmurs.
Zhen Yan stops walking, turning slowly to face them. The bamboo hat tilts upward just enough for the ghost mask to face them fully. "You know my name," he says.
The men hesitate. That hesitation costs them. Zhen Yan moves. Not in a rush or leap, but simply stepping forward, body flowing like water finding its path. The sword leaves its sheath in a smooth, unbroken motion as its edge catches faint light as mist curls around it.
One man lunges.
Zhen Yan sidesteps, barely shifting his weight. His blade traces a short arc—not wide or even flashy. The man stumbles past him, momentum stolen before the weapon falls from numb fingers as he collapses to the ground.
Another attacker strikes from the side.
A second dagger flies.
"Troublesome..." Zhen Yan snares low and soft as his eyes turn to the next target.
This one Zhen Yan catches mid-air between two fingers. He flicks it back without looking.
The sound that follows is final. The last man retreats a step, eyes wide now—not with fear, but realization.
"You're not wandering," he says hoarsely. "You're hunting."
Zhen Yan advances. "Yes." A simple answer.
The man steadies himself, raising his blade. "Do you know what you're touching?"
Zhen Yan tilts his head sideways, eyes locked onto the man as he takes his quiet steps closer.
"Do you know," the man continues desperately, "what kind of blossom you're stepping on?"
Zhen Yan stops an arm's length away.
"You're already dead," he says. "Your words won't bloom."
Tilting his head down as he scoffs, asking if the man is saying to the correct person and not to the mirrored him. Hearing this remark, the man attacks. Zhen Yan's sword meets his in a single, clean clash. When the mist settles, only one man remains standing. Zhen Yan lowers his blade, letting fresh blood drips before cleaning the blade with a wave of the sword, sheathing it as he tilts his bamboo hat downwards, "you were dead ever since you entered the arena.
~~
He kneels beside the fallen men, his movements efficient and unhurried. He checks all sleeves, collars, and inner pockets. Ignoring coins and weapons, he searches only for his targeted marks. And on the third body, he finds it.
A black metal petal, identical to the one given by the elder.
He closes his fingers around it.
The symbol etched into its surface is clearer here—an abstract blossom, its lines sharp and angular, incomplete. A design meant to be recognized by those who know, and meaningless to those who do not.
Zhen Yan straightens, hands moving to the handle of his sheathed sword. He feels the forest is quiet again, this time, a little too quiet to be normal.
He turns, senses brushing outward. Someone is watching. "Come out," he says soft and calmly but clearly for the other party to hear.
Silence.
Then slow applause. An old man steps from behind a tree, leaning lightly on a wooden staff. His hair is thin, his robe plain, his expression unreadable. "You move like regret," the man says. "Clean. Heavy. Unavoidable."
"State your business."
The old man smiles faintly. "I tend graves."
Zhen Yan glances at the bodies. "These are fresh," he says.
"So are weeds," the old man replies calmly. "Both grow where blood feeds the soil."
Zhen Yan studies him.
"You followed them."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"They were hunting you."
Zhen Yan's eyes narrow. "And you?"
"I was curious," the man says. "Few men survive crossing paths with petals."
Zhen Yan says nothing.
The old man taps his staff lightly against the ground. "You're early," he says. "The Blossom doesn't expect you to move this fast."
That word again.
"Blossom," Zhen Yan repeats.
The old man nods. "A garden hidden in plain sight. Petals fall where they are told. Roots run deep."
"Who commands it?"
The old man chuckles. "You ask for the sun by pointing at the sky."
Zhen Yan steps forward.
The air tightens.
"But," the old man continues quickly, "I can tell you this—today's men were scouts. Tests. They wanted to see if the Windshadow was rumor… or reality."
"And now?"
"Now," the old man says, meeting Zhen Yan's gaze, "they know."
Zhen Yan sheathes his sword. The sound is final.
"Where is the next petal?" he asks.
The old man hesitates, then reaches into his robe and produces a folded strip of cloth. He sets it on a stone. "A town," he says. "Two days east. Small. Quiet. Too quiet."
Zhen Yan picks it up. "Why help me?"
The old man's eyes darken. "Because once," he says, "a family was erased there too."
Zhen Yan turns away, and as he walks into the mist, the old man speaks softly. "Be careful, child of ash."
Zhen Yan, without looking back replies in a flat tone. "I stopped being a child," he says, "when kindness died."
The forest swallows him. Somewhere far away, a garden stirs, and one of its petals probably has already fallen.