The corridors narrow, winding like serpents around the core of the estate. Zhen Yan moves with silent precision, ghost mask tilted slightly as his eyes scan every shadow. Each step resonates with purpose; each breath is measured. The companions follow in perfect synchronization, a deadly rhythm honed through countless battles. The orchestrator from the previous hall lies unconscious but alive, disarmed and restrained. Zhen Yan has no intention of killing yet—he has learned that patience, observation, and strategy can dismantle even the most fortified lineage.
At the heart of the estate lies the inner circle: chambers reserved for those who share blood with the orchestrator, descendants whose hands have signed off on massacres, who have made cruelty a ritual of their lineage.
The first chamber they approach is shrouded in darkness. Lanterns flicker behind carved latticework, shadows dancing unnaturally on the walls. A faint murmur escapes from within—a conversation carried in hushed tones, plotting, scheming. Zhen Yan listens, letting the words paint the picture he already suspects: betrayal runs deep, and the orchestrator is only the surface. He motions to the companions. "Inside, but cautiously. Every shadow may hide steel, every whisper a blade."
The swordsman leads the entry, moving like a shadow within a shadow, spearwoman flanking, monk at the rear. Zhen Yan steps in last, daggers spinning lightly in anticipation.
Inside, four figures rise simultaneously, masks half-concealing faces, swords drawn. Each bears the sigil of the main house. Their leader, a man with streaked gray hair and cold eyes, bows slightly. "Windshadow," he says, voice smooth and deliberate. "I wondered when you would find your way here. The inner circle waits. But you… you were never meant to reach this far unbroken."
Zhen Yan tilts his head beneath the mask. "I am not broken. And I do not intend to be. You all toy with lives, and now you will feel the consequences."
Steel sings. The first strike is sudden—a flurry of coordinated movements. Zhen Yan intercepts, daggers spinning, sword arcs deflecting blades. His companions act in perfect synchronization, every movement a deadly extension of his will.
The battle is intense as usual. The inner circle fights with experience and precision, anticipating tactics, probing for weakness. But Zhen Yan moves differently. He does not simply react; he predicts, adapts, and teaches the companions to respond in tandem. Daggers cut ropes and trigger traps, spears knock weapons aside, swords disarm. Every motion is calculated. The eldest of the four, a woman with ice in her gaze, steps forward, challenging Zhen Yan directly. "You are skilled, Windshadow. But you still fail to see the web. Every action, every step, every strike… it has been foreseen."
Zhen Yan spins, blade flashing in the dim light. "Then let me prove you wrong."
Daggers fly. Sword arcs intercept. The companions cut off flanking attackers, forcing the inner circle into a defensive stance. The room fills with the sound of steel clashing against steel, breath caught between the thrill of combat and the inevitability of defeat.
Finally, the inner circle is subdued, kneeling or unconscious. Zhen Yan steps forward, daggers poised. Ghost mask reflects the flickering lantern light.
"Blood runs thicker than loyalty," he says. "Yet you chose cruelty over kinship. Every life taken, every family destroyed… you will answer."
The companions stand at his sides, weapons ready, understanding the magnitude of what they have done and what remains. Beyond these walls lies the heart of the estate—and with it, the truth of his own blood, the orchestrator of his pain, and the final reckoning.
Zhen Yan exhales beneath the mask, voice barely more than a whisper: "We move forward. Every secret, every hand that played with lives… ends here."
The inner circle's eyes meet his, realization dawning too late. Outside, the estate trembles in anticipation, sensing the storm moving through its veins.
The central hall of the estate stretches before Zhen Yan like a cathedral of stone and shadow. Crimson blossoms embroidered on tapestries sway slightly in the cold wind, their red vivid against the muted gray of the walls. Every step echoes, a drumbeat marking the approach of reckoning. He stands at the threshold, ghost mask tilted, daggers spinning lightly, sword ready. His companions fall into formation behind him, silent shadows poised to react. This is no ordinary battle—this is the confrontation he has been building toward for years.
A voice rings from the far end of the hall, smooth, familiar, laced with cruelty and arrogance.
"Zhen Yan… or should I say, the prodigal son...my dearest little brother?"
From the shadows emerges a young man, face strikingly similar beneath a half-mask. Hair the same shade as Zhen Yan's long strands, shoulders broad, eyes cold but intelligent. Recognition strikes sharply beneath the ghost mask.
His blood-related brother.
"You…," Zhen Yan mutters, daggers tightening in his grip. "You are part of this… part of their amusement?" His eyebrow lowers, tilting his head down slightly, "and...little brother...?"
The brother smiles faintly, almost bitterly. "We are family. You survived, while I thrived. Our parents… they played their games. And now, you finally arrive. I've been waiting for this moment, the meeting of blood against blood."
Zhen Yan's jaw tightens beneath the mask. "Family? Don't speak to me of family. They slaughtered mine. You and I… we are strangers bound by cruelty, not love."
Steel flashes. The brother's sword arcs toward Zhen Yan with terrifying precision. Zhen Yan counters with daggers, spinning, deflecting, moving as fluidly as water in a storm. Every strike, every parry, every step is a dialogue of death, a conversation of vengeance and fate. The companions flank strategically, neutralizing hidden guards who rush in to protect the brother. Spearwoman intercepts a flanking sword with a single, sharp thrust; swordsman disarms an attacker attempting a rear strike; monk uses precise sweeps to disable the last of the reinforcements.
The brother moves with speed and grace, each attack revealing years of training and inherited skill. Yet Zhen Yan is different now—sharper, colder, unrestrained. Every strike he makes is not just defense but judgment, every move a culmination of years of loss and mastery.
"You think you can defeat me," the brother hisses, circling, eyes calculating. "You were raised in shadows, tempered by grief… but I was born into power, into guidance, into cunning. You are nothing compared to what I was groomed to be."
Zhen Yan spins, dagger flashing, sword following in a lethal arc. "You are nothing compared to a man who has nothing left to lose."
The battle escalates, steel against steel, shadows bending around the hall. Zhen Yan pushes his brother back, forcing him toward the center of the chamber. Each strike reveals more than skill—it reveals the contrast between those who were shaped by cruelty and those who were forged by loss.
Finally, with a precise step and a calculated feint, Zhen Yan disarms his brother, daggers resting against his chest. The ghost mask tilts, reflecting the lantern light like judgment itself.
"Don't play with lives," Zhen Yan says, voice low and deadly. "You might end up losing your own if you do."
The brother's mask half-shifts with shock, recognition dawning too late. Zhen Yan presses forward, voice echoing in the hall: "You chose the amusement of our parents over the lives they destroyed. Now… you pay."
The hall falls silent save for the measured breathing of the surviving companions. The first blood-related confrontation is over. Outside, the estate trembles with the knowledge that the Windshadow has reached the heart—and nothing within these walls can escape his judgment.