The final blade dance began at the stroke of midnight.
Yānchéng's central square had transformed again—lanterns dimmed to deep crimson, spectators pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in a breathing wall of silk and leather. A circle of braziers burned low around the raised platform, throwing long shadows that danced like uneasy spirits.
Only four contestants remained.
Mei—still masked as Shadow Thorn—stood on the eastern edge of the circle, practice sword borrowed from the house resting loosely in her right hand. Across from her: a wiry spear-user with a serpent tattoo curling around his forearm. To her left: Willow Dancer from the first bout, now wearing fresh bandages but moving like water anyway. To her right: a silent giant in bone armor, axe already drawn, breathing slow and heavy.
The announcer's voice rolled out one last time.
"Final bout—free-for-all. Last one standing claims the Frost Token. No rules beyond that. Begin!"
The giant moved first—axe sweeping in a wide arc that could have felled a tree. Willow Dancer spun away like smoke; Serpent Spear thrust low, aiming for the giant's knees. Mei didn't charge. She circled—slow, patient—watching patterns, waiting for the moment the circle broke.
It broke fast.
Serpent Spear overextended. Giant caught the spear shaft with his off-hand, yanked the man forward, and brought the axe down. A wet crunch. Serpent Spear dropped—alive, but finished.
Willow Dancer darted in—blades flashing at the giant's back. He roared, spun, caught her across the ribs with the flat of the axe. She flew—hit the platform edge hard—rolled once and stayed down.
Two left.
Mei and the giant.
The crowd went fever-quiet.
He turned toward her slowly. Bone armor creaked. Eyes behind the skull helm glittered.
"You're small," he rumbled. "Make this quick."
Mei lifted her sword—tip low, stance open.
The hairpin pulsed—once, sharp, almost frantic.
Then it cracked.
Not sound.
Sensation.
A hairline fracture ran through the jade, invisible to the eye but screaming inside her skull. Heat flooded her meridians—too much, too fast. Her vision flickered: green static at the edges.
The giant charged.
Mei's body reacted on instinct—old muscle memory kicking in—but something was wrong. The movements felt… shared. Split. Like two people trying to pilot the same limbs.
She parried the first axe swing—barely. Steel rang against bone. The impact jarred her shoulders.
Second swing. She ducked, rolled, came up slashing at his hamstring. The blade bit leather but not deep enough. He kicked—boot like a battering ram. She took it on the forearm, felt bone creak, staggered back.
The hairpin cracked again—louder in her mind.
And then the vision came.
Not one memory.
Three.
First: a sword saint in black robes, bleeding from the mouth, driving a final thrust through an enemy's heart.
Second: a weeping girl in white, hairpin in her hand, whispering I'm sorry before plunging it into her own chest.
Third: Mei—this Mei—sixteen years old, kneeling in the marble hall, silver-haired silhouette above her, reading exile without a tremor.
All three memories collided.
Mei screamed—short, involuntary.
Her qi surged—wild, uncontrolled. The practice sword glowed faintly green. The giant hesitated.
She moved.
Not gracefully. Not perfectly.
Ugly. Desperate. Alive.
She closed the distance in three steps—feinted high, dropped low, drove the sword's pommel into his solar plexus. Air exploded out of him. He doubled. She spun behind him, hooked his ankle with her foot, and shoved.
The giant toppled—two hundred kilos of bone and muscle crashing to the planks.
Mei stood over him, chest heaving, sword trembling in her grip.
The crowd erupted.
The announcer's voice cut through.
"Winner—Shadow Thorn!"
Mei didn't hear the cheers.
She dropped to one knee—vision swimming. The hairpin was splitting further—three visible shards now, glowing sickly green beneath her hair. Pain lanced through her scalp like someone had driven nails into her skull.
She reached up—fingers shaking—and touched it.
One shard came away in her hand.
Small. Sharp. Still warm.
And attached to it—faint, flickering—a thread of qi that wasn't hers.
It stretched outward—thin as spider silk—toward the pillar draped in red.
Toward the white fox mask.
Lán Xīuyīng stood motionless.
But the thread touched her.
For one heartbeat, Mei felt her.
Not memory.
Not vision.
Real.
Cold surprise.
A flicker of something warmer—something buried deep.
Then—ice snapping back into place.
The thread snapped.
The shard in Mei's palm went dark.
She stared at it.
Then at the pillar.
Xīuyīng was gone—vanished into the crowd the moment the bout ended.
Sùyīn pushed through the spectators, reached the platform, and knelt beside Mei.
"Mei—what happened?"
Mei held up the shard.
"It's breaking," she whispered. "Every time I use it… every time I win… it gives a piece away."
Sùyīn's eyes widened.
"To who?"
Mei looked toward the empty pillar.
"To her."
Sùyīn followed her gaze.
Then back to the three glowing cracks still in the hairpin.
"How many left?"
Mei closed her fingers around the dead shard.
"Two more, maybe. Then it's gone."
Sùyīn exhaled—shaky.
"And when it's gone?"
Mei met her eyes.
"Then whatever's holding me here—whatever's letting me fight like this—stops. And I have to face her as me. Just me."
Sùyīn reached out—hesitant—and covered Mei's hand with her own.
"Then we make sure the next pieces count."
Mei nodded.
The crowd was still cheering.
The Frost Token lay on a velvet cushion at the announcer's feet—small, pale green, humming with array power.
Mei stood slowly.
Took it.
The moment her fingers closed around it, the hairpin gave one final, soft pulse.
Not warning.
Not memory.
A promise.
Two more.
Choose carefully who you give them to.
Mei looked out over the sea of faces.
Somewhere in that sea, a silver braid had already begun moving toward the northern gate—toward the road that led back to the Celestial Sword Academy.
Mei tightened her grip on the token.
"I'm coming," she whispered.
The hairpin answered—quiet, almost tender.
We know.