The room is dim, the air heavy with the scent of candle wax and old parchment. Shadows stretch along the walls, flickering as the single lantern sways. Zhen Yan stands at the threshold, ghost mask obscuring his face, sword loose at his side, daggers ready in case the figure before him moves to strike.
The figure seated at the table does not rise. A woman's voice joins the silence, soft but sharp, carrying authority: "You've come far, Zhen Yan," she says. "Faster than expected. But do you truly understand why you were spared? Why the Zhen Family fell?"
Zhen Yan steps closer, voice low and steady beneath the mask. "Spare me your riddles. I have walked through your games, dodged your blades, seen the faces of those you sent to kill me. I know enough to call it cruelty disguised as amusement."
The figure smiles faintly. "You know fragments. Pieces. But the truth is far more… intricate. The Zhen Family was an obstacle. A minor one, yes, but their loyalty threatened our design. You, however… you were the key."
Zhen Yan's grip tightens on his sword. Every instinct screams forward, yet he waits, measuring. "The key? To what?"
"To the continuation of power," the woman replies, voice almost gentle. "To see if blood can endure beyond circumstance, if a child can become a weapon without being aware of its own potential. Your adoption was no accident. Your survival… was always part of the plan."
A sharp exhale escapes Zhen Yan beneath the mask. "You mean my pain, my family's slaughter… all of it was your sport. My life was nothing but a tool for amusement and control."
"Not amusement," she corrects, tone patient, almost maternal. "Observation. Experimentation. You were tested, molded, and allowed to grow in the shadows. And now, you've returned… fully formed."
The words hang in the air like a blade suspended by a thread. Behind them, the companions shift subtly, understanding the weight of revelation. Zhen Yan is not merely seeking revenge; he is confronting the architects of his very existence.
The next minutes are a dance of silence, strategy, and threats.
Zhen Yan steps closer to the table, eyes narrowing beneath the mask. "You made me into what I am. But do not mistake creation for obedience. You do not command me. You cannot stop me. And every life taken in my adoptive family will be repaid in kind."
The woman leans back, hand brushing the letters on the table. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you will see that blood does not always answer as you expect. Choices matter. Actions have consequences… even for those born into privilege."
Zhen Yan tilts his head slightly. "Then let me test your theory."
In an instant, he moves. Daggers fly with deadly precision, knocking weapons from hands that were long trained to anticipate his moves. Sword arcs follow, each strike measured to disable, unbalance, and warn. The companions surge forward, a silent chorus of steel and motion, complementing every strike, every feint. The room erupts in controlled chaos—furniture splintered, shadows twisting against the walls, firelight flickering with each clash. But Zhen Yan's blade never falters, his daggers never miss. Every move carries the weight of vengeance long held and the cold calculation of a man who has nothing left to lose.
Minutes stretch, the dance continues, and finally, silence falls once more.
The woman and her aides remain, breathing carefully, evaluating. Zhen Yan stands at the center, daggers in hand, sword sheathed, ghost mask tilted slightly forward. The companions flank him, calm but ready, eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. "You are… formidable," the woman says at last. "And yet… you still have not faced the full circle. Your true family waits beyond these walls, and not all of them will recognize the Windshadow as the one who has returned to claim what is theirs by blood."
Zhen Yan's voice is low, but carries a cold promise: "I do not seek recognition. I seek truth… and justice. And every hand that played with my life will fall by my own."
The firelight flickers, casting the ghost mask into a spectrum of red and black. Outside, the estate sleeps uneasily, knowing that the first confrontation has begun—and that the deeper circles of betrayal and cruelty are waiting. Zhen Yan steps back, companions at his side, ready to move deeper into the labyrinth. Every shadow hides secrets. Every corridor whispers the sins of the past. And he will uncover them all, one strike at a time.
The estate's inner walls rise like jagged teeth, enclosing courtyards, halls, and hidden chambers in shadows and stone. Zhen Yan moves through them like a phantom, ghost mask concealing the intensity in his gaze, sword sheathed but ready, daggers spinning lightly in his hands. Every step is measured, every breath calculated. Behind him, the companions mirror his motions, their silent coordination a testament to months of battle and trust. The deeper they move, the more they feel it: the estate is alive. Not with people, but with intent. Traps hidden beneath rugs, pressure plates disguised as floorboards, walls designed to collapse or impale. Each corridor is a test, each door a challenge. Zhen Yan senses the pattern beneath the chaos. The estate itself is a reflection of the family who built it: cunning, cruel, and always observing.
A faint sound draws their attention—a soft footstep behind a carved screen. Zhen Yan pauses, tilting his head beneath the mask. "They are expecting us," he murmurs. "But not in the way we think."
The companion swordsman tightens his grip on his blade, the spearwoman adjusts her stance, the monk folds his hands subtly, all synchronized.
A figure steps into the dim light: a man in elegant robes, mask half black, half white, eyes sharp and unflinching. The sigil on his breastplate is familiar: the same emblem etched into Zhen Yan's memories as the mark of those who destroyed the Zhen Family.
"I wondered when you would reach this far," the man says smoothly, voice carrying a calm menace. "You've survived hunters, assassins, and the first circle. Yet you still do not know how tightly the web has been spun."
Zhen Yan steps forward, the ghost mask shadowing his expression. "I know enough. You were part of the hand that struck my adoptive family. And now, you face me."
The man smiles faintly. "Do you know whose hand you strike at first?"
Zhen Yan's grip tightens. "Blood answers for itself. It does not wait for permission."
Steel sings. The first strike comes fast—a blade aimed for Zhen Yan's side. He spins, daggers flying, deflecting the blow, slashing a rope that held a hidden crossbow aimed at the group. The companions surge forward, each engaging a hidden attacker revealed from the walls.
The hall erupts into motion. Daggers slice air, spears knock weapons aside, swords clash in controlled fury. Zhen Yan moves with precision, every strike measured, every motion a lesson in survival and inevitability.
But this is different from all battles before.
The man before him is not merely skilled; he knows Zhen Yan, predicts the rhythm of his movements, and yet each anticipation is subtly incorrect. It is a duel not only of steel, but of mind. Each movement teaches, probes, and tests Zhen Yan's resolve.
"You've grown," the man says mid-clash, "but the blood you carry still trembles beneath the mask."
Zhen Yan whispers back, daggers spinning in arcs of red and silver: "And yet it does not bend."
The companions take coordinated action, cutting off escape routes, neutralizing hidden attackers, and protecting Zhen Yan from flanking strikes. Each move flows seamlessly with his, a deadly orchestra where every participant knows the rhythm.
Finally, Zhen Yan disarms the man, dagger resting lightly against his chest, sword whispering against the sheath. "It ends here," he says coldly.
The man bows slightly, acknowledging the inevitable. "Perhaps… but the circle is not yet complete. You have faced hunters, tests, and illusions. The inner estate hides deeper truths. Blood you never knew, power you never sought, and cruelty you will not forgive."
Zhen Yan steps back, letting the companion swordsman take the lead in securing the hall. His eyes flick to the corridors beyond, aware that the deeper layers of the estate will demand not only strength, but strategy, cunning, and the cold decisiveness he has honed for years.
"Then we continue," he says quietly. "Every secret will bleed into the open. Every truth will face steel. And every hand that plays with lives… will answer for it."
The ghost mask tilts in the firelight as they move deeper into the estate, each corridor a promise of confrontation, each shadow a potential enemy, each step a heartbeat in the approaching storm.