The city rises from the plain like a wound dressed in finery. High walls of pale stone catch the morning light, surfaces polished smooth, unmarred by siege or neglect. Silk banners ripple along the battlements, dyed in soft colors meant to soothe the eye. Beyond the gates, tiled rooftops stack upon one another, threaded by wide streets and canals that reflect the sky. This place is called Lanyin—City of Silk. A place where trade never sleeps, where contracts weigh more than swords, and where nothing is ever done without witnesses who swear they saw nothing.
Zhen Yan arrives before noon. Pausing at the edge of the main road, bamboo hat low, ghost mask pale beneath it. Travelers pass him without slowing—merchants with ledgers, couriers on horseback, pilgrims clutching charms. The guards at the gate only glance at him for a quick second before turning away. Masks are not rare here, and neither is blood.
Inside, the air hums with life, voices overlap, and vendors calling out prices. Perfumed smoke drifts from incense stalls. Somewhere, music plays—light and ornamental, easy to ignore.
Zhen Yan walks straight through it all. He feels it immediately. Eyes not staring, not following openly, but counting. He turns down a narrower street, then another, then another still, moving without pattern. The sensation remains, steady and patient.
Good. That means the Blossom has roots here.
He stops at a bridge spanning a narrow canal. The water below is clear, having peaceful slow-moving flow. Carp drift lazily near the surface, red and gold shapes gliding without care. A woman stands nearby, feeding them crumbs from her palm. She is young, dressed simply, her hair tied back loosely. Her movements are gentle, this being ordinary, too ordinary to think it is normal. "You walk like someone expecting trouble," she says without looking at him.
Zhen Yan stops beside her. "I usually find it," he replies.
She smiles faintly. "Or it finds you."
The carp scatter suddenly. Zhen Yan's hand shifts slightly beneath his robe.
"You're late," the woman says. "Third Root Bai He was meant to stop you."
"He tried."
Her smile fades when the words reach her, "So it's true," she murmurs. "The Windshadow isn't a rumor." Turning to face him. Her eyes are sharp now—clear, calculating. The softness vanishes like mist under the sun. "Fourth Root," she says. "Outer Blossom."
Zhen Yan studies her "You hide well."
"We survive by doing so," she replies. "Unlike petals." Slightly lowering her palm, brows lower as she exhales while shaking her head lightly, she adds, "You've forced the Inner Garden to take notice," she continues. "Do you know what that means?"
"It means," Zhen Yan says, "you're running out of people to send."
She laughs softly. "Still so certain." Her gaze flicks to the water. "Do you know," she asks, "how many families disappear every year without ripples? Villages erased, names forgotten. And yet the world remains...so peaceful."
Zhen Yan's voice is cold. "Because you make it so."
"Because someone must," she corrects. "Chaos feeds on weakness. We prune it."
Zhen Yan turns fully toward her. Hands clutching into a fist that continues to tighten up. "My family wasn't chaos." From his body language, she can tell that he is not so calm now. She hesitates by just a fraction. "That night," she says slowly, "was not my jurisdiction."
Zhen Yan steps closer. "But you know who ordered it."
Her lips press together, but before she can answer, the air shifts. Pressure descends like a held breath finally released. From the far end of the bridge, a man approaches.
He wears dark blue robes, embroidered with silver thread so fine it nearly disappears into the fabric. His hair is bound high, his posture flawless. At his waist hangs a sword sheathed in white lacquer.
Inner Garden.
The woman bows her head, knees bending slightly, "Envoy," she says quietly.
The man's gaze settles on Zhen Yan. "So," he says, voice smooth, "this is the one uprooting petals."
Zhen Yan meets his eyes. "You're late."
The man smiles. "I prefer to arrive when matters become interesting."
He steps closer, stopping a respectful distance away. Letting out a light crude smile on his face. "You seek revenge," the envoy continues. "Pure. Simple. Wasteful." Tone sounds like a mockery, or maybe it just is. Trying to make the young man mad? Zhen Yan reacts to no such small mockeries that just past his ears without entering.
"You've killed efficiently," the man admits. "But efficiency alone won't reach the canopy."
Zhen Yan's grip tightens. "Speak," he says.
The envoy's smile sharpens. "The night the Zhen Family fell," he says, "was ordered not by a rival sect… nor a wandering power."
The woman stiffens as if cold air lingers around her, sending chills to her out of the sudden.
"It was sanctioned," the envoy continues calmly, "by a house whose roots reach far deeper than ours."
Zhen Yan's breath stills.
"A great family," the envoy says. "Prosperous. Respected. Untouchable."
Silence stretches not before long when Zhen Yan asks, "Why tell me?"
"Because," the envoy replies, "they've begun to notice you."
The woman looks up sharply, "That wasn't—"
"Enough," the envoy cuts in gently before looking back at Zhen Yan. "They will come for you," he says. "And when they do, the Blossom will step aside."
Zhen Yan's voice is steady, but something dangerous coils beneath it. "Names." He presses coldly.
The envoy shakes his head, moving his hands behind his back. "Not yet."
Zhen Yan takes a step forward when the envoy raises a hand—not threatening, merely firm. "Kill me," he says softly, "and you'll die before sunset."
Zhen Yan studies him for a long moment, before finally stepping back. The envoy inclines his head, nodding lightly, satisfied. "Good..." he says. "...grow a little more." He then turns and walks away without another world while the woman remains shaken.
"You shouldn't have spared him," she whispers.
Zhen Yan looks at the water, where the carp have returned.
"I didn't," he says. "I marked him."
She looks at him sharply. "What?"
Zhen Yan turns, already leaving. "Tell your garden," he says, "that blossoms fall… no matter how high they grow."
Behind him, in the City of Silk, silence begins to spread—not outward but inward instead. And far above in halls untouched by blood, someone who has never feared consequence feels something unfamiliar stir.
A chill of unease.