The name, ‘Baili Bloodstone Sword,’ ripped through Baili Chen like a hooked barb. Heat flared across his cheekbones, sharp as salt in raw meat. That blade, a relic forged in the heart of a fallen star, had been his father’s, a symbol of their branch of the clan’s once-proud lineage. Now, it was a prop for Baili Ming’s petty theatrics, flaunted by the very kin who had conspired in his ruin. A low growl rumbled in his throat, a sound more beast than man, barely suppressed by the discipline Yaoluo had instilled.
Song Jiao, ever the opportunist, turned from Elder Ku to congratulate Baili Ming, her voice dripping with manufactured sweetness. “Cousin Ming, what splendid news! The Bloodstone Sword in your hands… a true omen of victory for the Baili clan.” Her eyes flickered to ‘Gongsun Yang,’ a smile playing on her lips, as if inviting him to share in her delight. The irony was a bitter taste.
Before Chen stepped forward, fingers clamped over his forearms. Su Wanyan. Her touch was light, yet anchored him. Her gaze met his, unwavering, and for a fleeting moment, the raw, unmasked fury in his eyes seemed to find an echo of understanding in hers. “The Bloodstone Sword is formidable,” she murmured under the noise of the courtyard. “Yet your channels need bitter medicine before sunrise. Umbral leaves grow along the Serpent's Maw, west past the outer palisade. We slip out now while Elder Ku’s shattered mirror distracts the watch.”
He pulled his arm from her grasp, the brief connection severed. He didn’t need her pity, or her help. But he needed the herbs. He needed the elixir. His energy channels burned like dry wick, raw beneath the flesh. He nodded curtly, turning on his heel without another word.
They slipped past the boundary markers at twilight. The Serpent’s Maw opened before them as a split in black slate, reeking of old copper and rotting shale. Umbral Herbs thrived in such desecrated soil, drawing strength from the lingering resentment and despair.
“The mist deepens here,” Su Wanyan noted, her breath pluming in the chill air. Her hands, usually precise and steady, now clutched her satchel tighter. Even for a prodigy, the desolation of a forgotten battlefield held a certain dread. “Be cautious. Some believe the spirits of the fallen still wander these grounds.”
Chen scoffed, though the words tasted like ash. “Spirits are merely lingering resentments. Easier to deal with than the living.” He drew Iron Husk, the blade’s faint, demonic hum a familiar comfort. Its hunger was a mirror of his own. His fingers twitched against the scabbard, nerves misfiring along his forearms. He pushed it down, his pride a hard, unyielding knot.
They found a cluster of the dark, luminous herbs near a shattered monolith, their violet glow a beacon in the gloom. As Su Wanyan knelt to pinch the stems, a cramp locked Chen’s ribs. A searing pain shot through his left arm, the limb that had been crushed against the gorge wall. He gritted his teeth, a gasp escaping him. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the pain away.
“You’re still injured,” Su Wanyan stated, her voice softer than he’d ever heard it. He opened his eyes to find her standing over him, her expression one of quiet concern. Before he could retort, her hand reached out, brushing aside the torn silk of his robes. Her fingertips, surprisingly warm, traced the ragged line of a scar marring his chest, just above his sternum. It was an old wound, one he’d received during his crippling, a jagged memento of Baili Ming’s cruel sport.
He recoiled as if burned, his body stiffening. “Don’t touch me!” His voice was a harsh whisper, laced with an anger that was entirely self-directed. He pushed her hand away, stepping back. The contact scraped against raw pride. “Keep your hands off me.” His voice rattled dry in his throat. “I am hollowed out, Wanyan. My body is scrap metal and stolen breath.” He spat the words, each one a lash against his own soul. “Don’t pretend you see anything else.”
Her eyes, usually cool and analytical, held a spark of something he couldn't name. Pity? No. Something harder. “Corrupted beasts do not shiver from a draft, Gongsun Yang,” she replied, voice steady as stone. “They do not nurse old cuts. They tear.” She held his gaze. “You are merely maimed.”
Before he could respond, a whistle cut through the mist, sharp and discordant. Arrows, tipped with dark feathers, materialized from the swirling white, hissing towards them. Chen instinctively pulled Su Wanyan behind the monolith, Iron Husk leaping into his grip. Three figures, cloaked in shadowed silks, emerged from the vapor, their blades glinting wickedly. Their movements were fluid, practiced, clearly professional assassins.
“Baili Ming’s handiwork,” Chen snarled, recognizing the tell-tale insignia of the Viper’s Coil, a mercenary group known for their discretion and ruthlessness. His own rage flared, a dangerous counterpoint to the physical pain. He lunged, Iron Husk a blur of dark steel, parrying the first blade, the demonic artifact eager for the feast.
But before his blade could find purchase, a shadow detached itself from the deeper mist. Azure steel flashed through the dark, cracking against bone. Sima Jue, his Azure Serpent Spear now fully regenerated, moved with brutal grace. He was a whirlwind of controlled violence, his spear a terrifying extension of his will. The first assassin crumpled, throat crushed. The second shrieked, impaled through the chest. The third, attempting to flee, found his legs swept out from under him before the spearhead delivered a swift, merciless end.
The entire skirmish lasted less than ten breaths. Sima Jue stood over the fallen, his expression cold and impassive, a faint sheen of blood on the tip of his spear. The mist seemed to recoil from his presence. He wiped his spearpoint on an assassin's sleeve, tilting his chin upward. “Young Master Gongsun,” Sima Jue said, incline minimal and precise. “Baili Ming’s scouts are clumsy trackers. One cannot stroll these ravines unescorted when dogs are loose outside the sect gates.”
Su Wanyan stared, her face pale, the Umbral Herbs clutched tight in her hand. The brutal efficiency of Sima Jue’s intervention, the sheer casualness of the slaughter, was a stark reminder of the world they inhabited. “You… you knew?” she whispered, her gaze moving between Chen and Sima Jue.
Chen felt a knot of something akin to gratitude, something he immediately crushed. He hated owing anyone. “It seems I did not know enough,” he replied, his voice flat. He looked at Sima Jue. “Your loyalty is noted.” He did not ask how Sima Jue had known, or why he had risked himself. He simply accepted it, a king accepting his subject’s due.
Sima Jue nodded, sheathing his spear. “They will not trouble you again. Their bodies will be… disposed of.” He glanced at the herbs in Su Wanyan’s hand. “We should return inside the walls. The night grows long, and even the rocks have ears.”
As they turned back toward the sect’s high watchtowers, Yaoluo’s hiss coiled behind Chen’s temples from the depths of Iron Husk. *“A timely intervention, host. But remember your purpose. Tomorrow, you face your father’s blade. If you devour your father’s sword tomorrow, host, your borrowed face will melt in front of them all.”*