The forest is unnaturally quiet while Zhen Yan walks beneath towering pines whose trunks are blackened by age, the ground littered with fallen needles and broken branches. His ghost mask reflects faint moonlight as he pauses at a stream, letting the water run over his fingertips. The three companions behind him keep their distance, silent as shadows, yet alert. He senses it first—the fine change in the wind, a scent carried faintly over the cold mountain air. It is familiar, yet alien: the echo of a family he never knew, the weight of roots long hidden. "They are close," he murmurs, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword.
The swordsman glances at him. "You recognize it?"
"Not yet," Zhen Yan replies. "But it is calling… and I must answer."
The first hunter finds them at the ridge, a lone figure dressed in black-and-white, half-mask obscuring features, posture calm, weapon sheathed. "You are moving too openly," the hunter says, voice carrying over the stillness. "I know your path. I know the choices you made. And I know the blood that flows through you."
Zhen Yan steps forward slowly, sword resting lightly on his shoulder. "Then speak plainly. Or leave. I have no time for riddles."
The hunter inclines his head. "You are no longer the child of the Zhen Family. You were born elsewhere—into a house whose name should mean everything to you. Your adoption was not mercy. It was insurance. You survived… to become what they never could command."
Silence stretches before the companions shift, swords and spear ready. Zhen Yan's grip tightens on his sword. The words confirm what he has long suspected, yet the weight of their truth presses differently against his chest. "Why now?" he asks, voice cold, low. "Why reveal this after all these years?"
"Because they fear you," the hunter replies. "Because you are no longer simply a shadow. You are a reckoning. And the house that abandoned you… watches, waiting for you to complete what they set in motion."
Zhen Yan tilts his head, letting the weight of the revelation settle. "So all of this—this bloodshed, this pursuit, all of the hunters, the main house—they were just pieces in a game they thought I would never play?"
"Exactly," the hunter says. "And now, every piece moves under your hand."
The companions exchange glances, silent acknowledgment passing among them. They have followed him this far, yet they do not know the full depth of what Zhen Yan has carried. He sheaths his sword slowly, voice low but resolute. "Then it is time I learn the rules. And break them."
A gust of wind carries fallen needles across the path, brushing their faces like whispers of fate. The hunter inclines his head, stepping back.
"You will not walk this path alone," he says. "And soon, you will face the ones who chose to betray blood for power. They are waiting for you, at the center of it all."
Zhen Yan's grip on his sword tightens. His eyes, obscured by the mask, glint with cold resolve. "I will meet them," he says. "And when I do… they will learn what it means to play with lives they do not own."
Night falls with che campfire flickers faintly beside the ruined watchtower where they stop to rest. The companions settle nearby, weapons within reach, alert yet trusting. Zhen Yan sits alone, gaze fixed on the stars, thoughts tracing the newly revealed paths of his blood and the dark designs of his real family.
"The ones who killed the Zhen Family," he whispers to the wind, "were not the only murderers that night. And the ones who claimed my blood… will pay the price."
The ghost mask catches the firelight. The red blossoms along his hem sway slightly, as if alive, responding to the promise whispered in the night. Because from now on, Zhen Yan is no longer merely the shadow of vengeance, he is the storm moving toward its source, and nothing will stand in its path.
The morning fog hangs low over the southern valleys, hiding the worn paths and broken roads beneath a shroud of white. Zhen Yan moves silently along a narrow trail, ghost mask in place, sword sheathed but ready, daggers glinting faintly in the dim light. His companions follow in close formation, each step careful, each breath measured. The villages here are small, scattered, but rumor travels fast. Even in the quiet, the whispers find them: The Windshadow comes. He carries the blood of those who were forgotten.
Some close doors, some draw shutters, and some—few, but telling—leave them open, tokens of subtle defiance. Zhen Yan notices the patterns. The people do not resist him; they respect him. Or fear him. Perhaps both.
By mid-morning, they reach a small township perched at the edge of a river, a minor faction whose loyalty had once been pledged to his true family. The leader—a thin man with graying hair tied back, robes clean but simple, eyes calculating—steps onto the main path as they enter. He bows low, almost grudgingly. "Windshadow," he says, voice even. "I am Li Cheng. You walk where few dare, and yet… I must ask—why spare my men and my home when others fell before you?"
Zhen Yan steps forward, eyes hidden beneath the mask. "Because you are not the hand that struck the Zhen Family," he replies. "But you will learn the consequences of loyalty to those who play with lives."
Li Cheng swallows, shifting uneasily. "Then… you forgive us?"
Zhen Yan tilts his head, voice cold. "Forgiveness is for those who ask it honestly. You ask it out of fear. That is not forgiveness. That is survival."
The companions shift, positioning themselves in a silent arc around Zhen Yan. Daggers, spear, sword—ready if needed.
That night, in the leader's compound, they speak in quiet tones. Li Cheng reveals fragments of what the main house has done in secret: Villages destroyed to demonstrate dominance. Minor factions coerced into obedience through blood and debt. Families sold, traded, or eliminated for sport, all under the guise of loyalty and tradition.
Zhen Yan listens, cold and measured. His jaw tightens. "They are predators," he says finally, voice low but firm. "And they used me as a pawn. My adoption… my survival… it was all a game to sharpen a blade."
Now, it seems that everyone is nothing but a prawn.
Li Cheng nods slowly, fear giving way to understanding. "You are the last heir," he says. "The bloodline they feared. The one they could not control. That is why they sent hunters, and executioners, and… others."
Zhen Yan stands, ghost mask catching the flickering firelight. Sword slides free with a whisper. "And now," he says, "I am the storm that answers it."
Outside, the wind carries the faint echo of signal fires from distant valleys, evidence that the main house watches still. The companions glance at him, understanding the scale of what lies ahead. Not merely a confrontation with enforcers or hunters, but with a system that has bred cruelty across generations, hiding it behind bloodlines and honor.
Zhen Yan sheathes his sword again. He does not smile. He does not hesitate. "Prepare yourselves," he says. "The closer we move to the heart, the heavier the corruption becomes. And the deeper we go, the more they will try to break us… and me."
The monk steps forward. "Then we will not break. Not while we walk beside you."
Zhen Yan nods once, the ghost mask reflecting the firelight like a promise. "In that case," he murmurs, "let them come. Let every hidden hand reveal itself. Let every secret claw its way into the open. Because once they do, there will be no hiding… and no mercy for those who took what was mine."
The companions tighten their grips on their weapons. Outside, the valley sleeps uneasily, as if sensing the storm approaching. And from far away within the stone halls of the main house, a whisper travels from elder to elder: he moves toward the heart of all we hid. He moves toward us.