The rain fell as if someone had ripped a whole bolt of burlap from the sky and slapped it across the mountain road.
The inn's lanternlight yellowed in the downpour, like a bulb trembling inside an old lampshade—lit, yet never able to pierce the wet fog outside. Water dripped from the eaves in unbroken threads, striking the mud and blooming into tiny rings that the next sheets of rain shattered at once.
He stood under the overhang and pushed his bamboo hat back.
Water slid off the brim and traced his temple. He didn't lift a hand to wipe it. He only watched the yard's muddy track, polished bright by wagon ruts. Across it lay several strings of footprints—messy, deep—like a group had hurried through, or like someone had paced back and forth again and again.
Two lanterns hung from the lintel, rain streaming down their silk skins. Beside them a wooden sign bore two neat characters: Inn. The strokes were so upright they looked afraid of causing trouble.
He was afraid of trouble too.
But trouble often came on its own.
His gaze lifted to the corner of the eaves—where a wind chime hung. When the wind stirred, the notes broke into fine fragments. The rain was heavy, the wind wasn't, and still the chime rang, as if someone across the fog had brushed it with a fingertip.
He withdrew his eyes and stepped over the threshold.
Inside was warm—too warm. Heat laced with the smell of liquor, charcoal, damp cloth rushed at his face. Travelers sat at a few tables, half-wet and worn. Some drank hot wine, some gnawed cold meat; more simply huddled by the fire in silence, as if a single word might leak the thing they'd been hiding.
The innkeeper saw him and swept his gaze: first the hat, then the straw rain cape on his shoulders, and finally—his waist. That last look paused only briefly, yet with perfect accuracy.
The innkeeper's expression loosened a fraction. Then a smile was pasted on. "Guest, are you eating or staying?"
"Staying." He took off the hat; water dripped from its rim to the floor. "A quiet room."
The innkeeper's smile deepened. "We have one—second floor, the last room at the end. Only…" He lowered his voice. "Such heavy rain—night may not be peaceful. Would you like a pot of hot wine as well, to chase off the chill?"
He didn't answer at once. Instead he drew a letter from inside his robe. The envelope's corners had softened with damp, yet he'd guarded it carefully, not letting water smear the writing.
The innkeeper's eyes flicked to it—like catching a spark—then snapped away. "May I ask your surname, guest?"
"Shen," he said lightly.
"Guest Shen." The innkeeper handed over a key, fingers steady. "Upstairs, please."
He took the key. Rain clung to the back of his hand, along with the cold of the road. Yet he walked neither fast nor slow. His steps were light, but when they landed, they landed solid—like a man used to hiding his footfalls.
As he climbed, he heard someone behind him murmur, "No sword."
Another voice, even softer: "You blind? What kind of jianghu man carries no sword?"
"He really has nothing at his waist."
"…Then we should stay even farther away."
He didn't look back.
People of the jianghu speak of others; nine of ten sentences are wrong. But when they're wrong to this degree, that's often when things are most dangerous.
The room at the end of the second floor had thin window paper; lamplight seeped through in warm yellow. He pushed the door open and bolted it from within. The room was small: a bed, a table, a brazier of charcoal. Firelight baked a faint smoke-stain into the corner of the wall.
He hung his rain cape behind the door. Water dripped down and gathered into a small puddle. Then he set the letter on the table and studied it under the lamp.
Only one line was written on the envelope:
Meet at Rain Post.
No signature.
The hand was steady, yet the strokes carried a slight hesitation—like the writer's hand had once been injured, or like their heart did not want to write.
He stared at the words for a long time, as if reaching back toward some distant night, when someone had written like this before.
The charcoal snapped, yanking his thoughts back.
He put the letter into his robe and sat, pouring himself a cup of hot water. Steam rose and blurred the world by a sliver.
Laughter drifted up from downstairs—someone calling a drinking game. The rain on the window paper sounded closer now, like countless knuckles tapping softly.
Listening, he suddenly lifted his head toward the window.
Outside was heavy black. Yet within that black was something that didn't belong to rain-night—like a thread: extremely thin, extremely straight, cutting through the fog and sliding along the window paper.
He didn't move. Even his breathing did not change.
That "thread" paused outside, so still it might never have come at all. After half a beat, the window paper bulged the slightest bit—not wind, but a fingertip pressing gently from the other side.
The spot was chosen well: the oldest, thinnest square of paper in the frame.
Press a touch harder, and it would tear.
But the fingertip only pressed this far, then stopped—like asking:
May I come in?
He set down his cup. His voice was calm. "The door isn't locked."
Outside, the person seemed to freeze for an instant. Then a soft laugh came through the paper—like a raindrop falling into an empty bowl, clear and crisp.
The next moment, the bolt clicked.
The door was pushed open a crack—from the outside.
By rights, the bolt was on the inside. The door shouldn't have moved.
He wasn't surprised. He only placed a hand on the table's edge, thumb stroking the grain as if feeling the hilt of an invisible blade.
A gust of rain-air squeezed through first, cold and wet. Then a figure followed.
The newcomer wore gray, hat brim pulled low. Rain ran off the brim in threads. Neither tall nor short, they moved like a cat—one step, and the brazier's flame did not even tremble.
After entering, the gray-clad person casually pulled the door shut.
The bolt still hung perfectly in place, as if it had never been touched.
"Guest Shen," the gray-clad person said. The voice was young, yet carried a hint of world-weary oldness. "You came—just as I thought."
He looked at them. "Who are you?"
The gray-clad person lifted their head and revealed a face too clean—pretty, almost. Clear brows and eyes, like a scholar, or like some small animal not yet fully grown. But those eyes were not clean. They held too many nights on the road, too many escapes, too many things that could not be spoken.
"My surname is Lu," the person said. "Lu Hui."
"Lu Hui?" He turned the name once in his mind, found nothing. "Never heard of you."
"It's normal you haven't." Lu Hui smiled. "I'm no great figure. I'm just delivering a message for someone."
"For whom?"
Lu Hui didn't answer. Instead, he drew a small oil-paper packet from his robe and set it on the table. The packet had been dampened by rain; its corners were soft. Lu Hui nudged it forward with two fingers, as lightly as pushing a leaf.
"Guest Shen. Look first."
He didn't unwrap it immediately. He smelled it.
A faint medicinal scent—beneath it, the metallic tang of rust.
With a flick of his fingertips, he opened the packet.
Inside lay a severed sword tassel.
A tassel should hang from a sword hilt, or near the mouth of a scabbard. But this one had been cut clean through—the snapped threads as neat as if some sharp weapon had severed them in a single instant. The tidiness was chilling.
A small jade pendant dangled from the tassel. It wasn't valuable, but the color was old, like something held in a palm for many years.
The moment he saw the pendant, his gaze finally changed.
Only slightly—like a spark leaping inside charcoal.
"Where did you get this?" he asked.
Lu Hui watched him. "I told you—I'm delivering a message. This is the message."
"Where are the words?"
Lu Hui spread his hands. "On the jade."
He lowered his eyes and looked closely. On the back of the pendant, one character was carved:
STOP.
A stop that said: This is as far as it goes.
Or: Don't go further.
He closed his hand around the jade. The warmth of his palm slowly pressed down its coldness. Yet the chill did not leave; it only drilled deeper into the bone.
Lu Hui watched the way he held it, then sighed. "They all say you carry no sword."
He raised his eyes. "I never had one."
Lu Hui blinked, then smiled like a grimace. "How can there be anyone in the jianghu who never had a sword?"
"There are," he said. "Many."
Lu Hui opened his mouth as if to argue, then swallowed it. After a moment, he murmured, "Then why did you come?"
He set the jade pendant back on the table. His voice remained even. "Because someone wants me to come."
Lu Hui's eyes flickered. "You know who?"
"I don't." He said. "But I do know that whoever can put this severed tassel in front of me isn't doing it so I can drink hot wine and sleep through the night."
Lu Hui nodded, as if conceding. "Meet at Rain Post—what you're meeting isn't just me."
"Who else?" he asked.
Lu Hui glanced toward the window. The rain sounded even heavier. He lowered his voice. "The night patrol is already at the door."
He frowned. "Night patrol?"
Lu Hui's smile turned thin. "The magistrate's patrol. And… other kinds of patrol."
He didn't press what other kinds meant.
Because downstairs, a sudden hush fell.
Not the hush of people choosing silence—rather, the hush of something in the air being suddenly pulled away. Like someone had clapped a lid over the stove, and even the heat dared not rise.
Then came a dull thud from below.
Like someone collapsing.
Or like someone's head being slammed into a table edge.
Then a second.
A third.
No screams.
No sounds of struggle.
Only rain growing louder, as if it were covering the last scraps of sound for someone.
Lu Hui's face paled, yet he kept smiling. "Guest Shen—you see? I didn't lie."
He rose and went to the door, pressing an ear to the panel. After listening, he whispered, "They're coming up."
He stood as well and put his hat back on.
"You're leaving?" Lu Hui asked.
"Not leaving," he said. "Going down to take a look."
Lu Hui froze. "Are you insane? Those sounds—can't you tell what they mean?"
"I can." He draped the rain cape on; the cold rainwater felt like knives. "That's why I have to go."
Lu Hui clenched his teeth. "What are you trying to do?"
He paused, then looked back at Lu Hui.
The look wasn't fierce—yet it tightened the heart.
"I want to know," he said, "who called me here… and who doesn't want me to leave."
Lu Hui opened his mouth again, but footsteps reached the stairwell.
Very light.
Light as raindrops landing on dry grass.
Yet with each step, the charcoal fire seemed pressed down by an invisible wind; the flame dimmed a shade.
Lu Hui swallowed hard, voice taut. "They're here."
He didn't answer. He slipped his hand into his sleeve.
Inside the sleeve was empty—no sword hilt, no dagger.
But the way he moved was as if he had gripped something.
As if he had gripped a blade you couldn't see.
The footsteps stopped outside the door.
On the panel, a thin shadow appeared—like an extremely slender knife sliding along the crack, drawing a gentle line.
Hiss.
The bolt snapped.
The door was not kicked open. It was pushed open softly from the outside, by someone polite enough to avoid waking anyone.
The door opened; cold rain-air poured in.
Three people stood outside.
The foremost wore a black cloak. Their face was hidden beneath the hood's shadow, only the chin showing—pale as something that had never seen sun. Behind them, two others held lanterns; the light shook in the rain and revealed patterns embroidered at their cuffs—not official uniform, but the dark stitching of a jianghu sect.
The black cloak spoke, voice like iron in rainwater. "Shen Who-Carried-No-Sword."
He said, "You have the wrong man."
A low laugh. "We have the right man. We're not here for your sword."
A cold weight sank in his chest. "Then what are you here for?"
The black cloak lifted a hand, pointing at the severed tassel on the table. "For its owner."
Lu Hui couldn't help taking a step back. His heel knocked the chair; it made a soft sound. The black cloak's gaze pinned him instantly, like a nail driven into wood.
"And you," the black cloak said. "Messengers should die first."
Lu Hui's face went whiter still, yet he forced a smile. "That's a bit—"
He didn't finish.
A tiny ugh caught in his throat—
because the black cloak's sleeve twitched.
A thin needle flashed out.
So thin it was like a strand of rain. So fast it was like a blink.
Lu Hui barely saw it before it reached his face.
He shut his eyes on instinct.
But the needle did not pierce him.
It stopped in midair.
As though something had blocked it.
As though it had struck an invisible wall.
The black cloak paused. A chill glint showed beneath the hood. "…As expected."
They said, softly, "The Unseen Sword."
He did not draw a sword.
Because he had none.
Yet the black cloak stared at the hand inside his sleeve as though staring at a peerless killing weapon already drawn.
In that moment, the rain sounded farther away.
Even the charcoal fell silent.
Only four people's breathing remained—light and heavy—like four ropes pulled tight to snapping.
The black cloak slowly raised their other hand. Lanternlight caught their knuckles; a scar lay across them, as though carved by a blade long ago.
"Shen Who-Carried-No-Sword," they repeated. "But you are the most dangerous."
He said, "There are many dangerous people."
The black cloak laughed. "You're different. You're holding Stop."
His heart jumped.
That character on the jade pendant seemed to leap from the table and press itself to his throat.
The black cloak's voice sank, like chanting a spell. "Hand it over."
He didn't move.
The black cloak's tone finally turned cold. "If you won't, we'll leave all of you at Rain Post tonight."
He said, "Rain Post was made to keep people."
The black cloak startled—then anger flared like fire rising in cold water. "Courting death!"
The cloak snapped; a shadow blurred—
and in the next instant, the two lanterns behind them went out at the same time.
Not wind-blown. The wicks were pinched dead in a heartbeat.
The room fell dark. Rainlight seeped through the window paper, thin as ash.
In the dark, a very soft ting sounded.
Like a needle striking the floor.
Or like steel touching jade.
For the first time, doubt entered the black cloak's voice. "You—"
He didn't let them finish.
His sleeve-hidden hand pushed forward.
The motion looked like offering a cup of water—plain, harmless.
But the black cloak's whole body jolted as if struck by something heavy, stumbling back into the doorframe with a dull thump.
The two behind them drew their weapons together, cold light flashing, and slashed at him.
He did not retreat an inch. He only lifted his hand.
In the air, it was as if an invisible line had been pulled perfectly straight.
The two blades twisted in mid-swing, as though biting into mud. Their killing force was stripped away, the edges dragged aside; they hacked into the table corner instead—crack—shearing off a chunk of wood.
In the darkness Lu Hui panted, voice shaking. "You… what are you—"
He didn't answer.
He only heard more footsteps downstairs—more of them, messier, closing in.
This inn had not welcomed only one group tonight.
At last he spoke, very softly, as if pressing down a blade.
"Lu Hui."
"Y-yes!" Lu Hui sounded close to tears.
"Take the jade. Hold it tight." He said. "Stay close."
"Where are you going?" Lu Hui asked.
He looked out into the rain-night beyond the window.
"Out," he said. "In the rain there are many roads—and many ways to live."
At the door the black cloak steadied themselves and forced out words from the shadow, cold as ice. "Do you think you can leave?"
He pulled his hat lower, hiding his eyes.
"I can," he said. "I've always been able to."
The black cloak laughed, as if at arrogance—
then stopped.
Because in the rain there was a sound lighter, thinner, colder, sliding close to the ear.
Like an unseen sword being drawn.
And that sword—
was precisely the one that could not be seen.