Yānchéng appeared at dusk like a bruise on the horizon—low walls of weathered yellow stone, lanterns already blooming red and gold along the battlements, the distant thump of festival drums rolling across the dry plain.
They reached the gates just as the sky turned the color of spilled ink.
Two guards in lacquered half-plate leaned on their spears, bored. One glanced at Mei's torn robes and the saber she carried awkwardly at her hip; the other eyed Sùyīn's healer box like it might contain contraband dreams.
"Papers," the taller one grunted.
Sùyīn produced a folded travel writ—creased, stained, but official-looking. Mei held her breath.
The guard squinted at it, then at them.
"Masquerade night. No weapons inside unless you're registered for the blade contest." He jerked his chin at Mei's saber. "Hand it over or pay the tax."
Mei hesitated.
Sùyīn stepped in smoothly. "She's my escort. We're here to sell herbs, not fight. The saber's for show."
The second guard snorted. "Show us your face, then."
Sùyīn reached into her cloak and slipped two small silver coins into the first guard's palm without breaking eye contact.
The man weighed them, then waved them through.
"Keep your heads down. Black Lotus has eyes everywhere tonight."
They passed beneath the gate arch.
Inside, Yānchéng was alive in a way that made Mei's borrowed heart stutter.
Streets narrow and lantern-lit, paper masks everywhere—fox faces, demon horns, porcelain dolls with painted tears. Vendors hawked candied plums and grilled scorpion skewers. A troupe of dancers spun silk ribbons through the crowd, trailing perfume and laughter. Somewhere a qin player plucked a slow, mournful melody that kept getting swallowed by the noise.
Sùyīn pulled Mei into a shadowed alley between a tea house and a gambling den.
"Wait here."
She disappeared into the crowd for ten minutes and returned with two cheap half-masks—black lacquer with silver vine patterns curling around the eyes—and a bundle of plain gray robes.
"Put these on. Your noble rags are too recognizable."
Mei changed quickly behind a stack of empty crates. The new robes were rough linen, but clean. The mask felt cool against her skin. When she stepped out, Sùyīn had already donned hers; only her sharp eyes and the faint scar on her jaw were visible.
"Better," Sùyīn said. "Now we blend."
They moved into the main square.
At the center stood a raised wooden platform—three rings of spectators already forming around it. A banner snapped overhead:
Yānchéng Annual Blade Dance – Open Challenge
Winner claims the Frost Token and a private audience with a Celestial Sword elder
Mei's stomach flipped.
The Frost Token. A jade medallion said to carry a sliver of the academy's protective array. Enough to let one outsider pass the outer wards during the trial without being shredded by formations.
Sùyīn noticed where Mei was looking.
"That's our ticket in," she murmured. "But the contest is no joke. Last year the winner was a wandering sword cultivator at peak Qi Condensation. Broke three ribs just to get the token."
Mei scanned the platform.
Contestants were already gathering—mostly young men in festival silks, a few women in practical leathers, one hulking figure wearing full bone armor that looked like it came from something that died angry. Knife-throwers warmed up on the side rings, blades flashing as they pinned targets with casual flicks.
Then Mei saw her.
Across the square, half-hidden behind a pillar draped in red silk, stood a figure in pale blue robes. Long silver hair bound in a single braid that reached her waist. Face covered by a white fox mask with ice-blue whiskers. She wasn't watching the contestants.
She was watching the crowd.
Watching them.
Mei's breath caught.
The hairpin flared—hot, sudden, almost possessive.
Her.
Lán Xīuyīng.
Here.
Not a memory. Not a ghost-voice in the ravine.
Real.
Sùyīn followed Mei's gaze and went rigid.
"That's—"
"I know."
Mei took one step forward before she could stop herself.
Sùyīn grabbed her wrist. Hard.
"Not now. Not like this. You go charging up there in borrowed robes and a cheap mask, she'll cut you down before you open your mouth."
Mei's pulse thundered in her ears.
"She's judging the blade contest."
Sùyīn's grip tightened. "Then we use it."
Mei tore her eyes away from the silver-haired figure.
"How?"
Sùyīn nodded toward the side ring where the knife-throwers were practicing.
"You said you fight like someone who died once and took notes. Prove it. Win a spot in the main event. Get close enough to speak to her without dying on the spot."
Mei looked at the targets—wooden dummies painted with red bullseyes, already studded with blades.
She flexed her fingers. The muscle memory was there—faint, but sharp. The hairpin hummed approval.
"I've never thrown a knife in my life," she said.
"Then you'd better learn fast."
They moved toward the side ring.
A small line had formed—mostly locals trying their luck for a few coppers or bragging rights. The organizer, a wiry man with a missing ear, barked rules:
"Three throws. Closest to center wins entry to the main blade dance. No qi enhancement. Pure skill. Next!"
Mei stepped up when her turn came.
The crowd murmured—two masked girls, one carrying a healer's box, the other looking like she'd never held anything sharper than a library quill.
The organizer handed her three balanced throwing knives. Light. Cold. Perfectly weighted.
Mei took them.
The hairpin whispered—no full memory, just sensation.
Wrist flick.
Breath out on release.
See the line between steel and target.
She lifted the first knife.
Across the square, the white fox mask turned slowly.
Mei felt the gaze like winter wind on bare skin.
She threw.
The knife spun once—clean arc—and buried itself one finger-width from the absolute center.
The crowd made a surprised sound.
Second knife.
Same motion. Same breath.
This one kissed the first—edge to edge.
Third.
Dead center. Splitting the second knife down the middle.
Silence.
Then applause—scattered at first, then roaring.
The organizer stared.
"You… you're in."
Mei lowered her hand. Her fingers weren't shaking.
She looked across the square.
The white fox mask hadn't moved.
But the silver braid swayed once—like the wearer had tilted her head, just slightly.
Curious.
Mei felt something bloom in her chest—small, reckless, terrifying.
Hope.
Sùyīn appeared at her side, voice low and fierce.
"You just painted a target on your back the size of the empire."
Mei smiled beneath the mask—small, unsteady, real.
"Good. Then she can't miss me."
Drums rolled louder.
The main blade dance was about to begin.
And somewhere in the crowd, a frost-blue gaze lingered a heartbeat longer than it should have.