Sarnai’s frost-blade, *Sundered Dawn*, pulsed with an icy aura, its tip a hair’s breadth from Targen’s throat. The air crackled with the hush of the arena crowd, their collective breath suspended. Targen, however, blinked with an almost bewildered innocence. “Oh, Senior Disciple Sarnai,” he murmured, his voice soft, “I do apologize. Was I perhaps too… vigorous in returning the engagement contract? I assure you, it was entirely unintentional.” His gaze drifted to the fractured pillar, a genuine flicker of regret in his eyes. Sarnai ground her molars together. Her objective was to protect the sect and uncover internal treason. Yet, here stood a man who had just casually rearranged the arena’s architecture and was now fretting over etiquette. She lowered her blade fractionally, steel warning him. “Vigorous? You pulverized a reinforced granite plinth. A feat that would strain even a Peak Core-Formation master. You, Targen, are a declared cripple, barely able to circulate an ounce of spiritual energy.” Her voice was a low rasp, cutting through the stunned stillness. “Ah, yes,” Targen acknowledged, color rising on his cheeks. “That. It was… rather unexpected. I was merely attempting to mildly dissuade Junior Korbin from further aggression.” “Mildly dissuade.” Sarnai’s lip curled. The absurdity was laughable if the implications were not dire. “Come. We will discuss your dissuasions somewhere less… public.” Her cold glance swept over the murmuring crowd, commanding them to scatter. She turned on her heel, a brisk movement, expecting him to follow. Targen hesitated, glanced toward the still-stunned Oyun, then back at the shattered plinth. He sighed. “Very well, Senior Sarnai. Lead the way.” Sarnai guided him through winding mountain paths, past chambers cut into the rock, until they reached the base of the Great Archives, a towering structure of dark, ancient stone normally bustling with scholars. Today, no footfalls echoed. She pushed open a heavy, bronze-bound door, revealing a cavernous hall lined with scrolls and dusty tomes reaching to the high ceiling. The air smelled of moldering paper and old camphor. This was a place rarely disturbed, especially its deeper, restricted vaults. She stalked to an alcove, pulling aside a moth-eaten woolen hanging depicting an old war god to reveal a hidden passage. Targen followed, Pogo a scaly shadow at his heels. The pangolin’s nose twitched, testing the draft, then nudged Targen’s leg with its snout, an inquisitive rumble humming in its throat. “The restricted vaults,” Sarnai announced, her voice echoing in the stone passage. “Here, even the walls have ears, but few dare listen. Now, speak, cripple. How did you break that stone? What illicit arts have you practiced? Who stands behind your sudden… resurgence?” She pinned him with a glare, impatience snapping in her tone. Targen’s eyes, however, weren't on her. They were fixed on a high, narrow window, where a small, blood-streaked bird fluttered weakly against the grimy glass, its tiny wing bent at an unnatural angle. “Oh, dear,” he whispered, his brow furrowing with genuine concern. “It seems to be quite injured. It must have flown into the pane.” Sarnai stared at him, aghast. “Are you quite mad? I am interrogating you about a potentially sect-destroying secret, and you are concerned with a common sparrow?” Her hand instinctively went to her blade’s hilt. “But it is suffering, Senior Sarnai,” Targen insisted quietly. “A small creature, in pain. We cannot simply leave it.” He began clambering onto a precarious stack of crumbling scrolls, much to Sarnai’s horror. Pogo scaled the wall beside him, claws hooking securely into mortar lines. “Jochi,” Targen thought, a silent plea. “A technique. Something to help the bird, quickly.” *Jochi: (A groan, followed by a sloshing sound.) Pathetic, boy. A bird? When will you learn to prioritize? Still, fine. My ‘Dragon’s Gentle Touch’ might suffice, but it requires a spiritual conduit… and a certain, shall we say, *incentive* for such trivial matters.* The lazy god paused, a mental image of a dark, amber liquid materializing in Targen’s mind. *Plum Blossom Dew. The vintage from the Moonlit Peak Distillery. Do you have any, by chance?* Targen winced. “I’m afraid not. It’s quite expensive, and I am, as Senior Disciple Sarnai noted, rather broke.” Just then, Pogo returned from the shadows, a small, dark bottle clutched in its paws, emitting a faint, sweet aroma. It nuzzled the bottle against Targen’s cheek. *Jochi: (A delighted chuckle.) Ah, my little pangolin friend. Always a treasure hunter. That will do perfectly! Now, focus. Channel your nascent spiritual energy, but don’t force it. Let it flow like water over smooth river stones.* As Targen cupped the bird in his palms, a deep quiet descended upon the archives. The tang of ozone, sharp and metallic, cut the draft. Sarnai whipped around, focus torn from Targen’s rescue effort. Her vision focused on moving shadows in the hall's depths. They shifted with unnatural swiftness, far too fast for ordinary sect members. Three figures emerged from the gloom in pitch-black robes, faces hidden beneath blank porcelain. They advanced in step, soles brushing stone without a scrape. Each brandished a hooked shortblade coated in oily green venom. The emblem of the Inner Sect, a coiled serpent devouring its tail, was stitched on their sleeves. *Killers.* Sarnai adjusted her stance. *The Grand Elder. He uncovered my investigation and sent executioners to bury me here.* Her fingers closed around the hilt of *Sundered Dawn*, its chill rising to a shriek. “Hold!” Targen called out, his voice surprisingly firm, despite his focus on the bird. “Please, there’s no need for violence. We can surely resolve this peacefully.” He mistook their aggressive stance as a challenge, not an assassination attempt. The lead killer, tall and gaunt, issued a rasping chuckle. He lunged, driving his shortblade toward Sarnai’s throat. The other two fanned out, one lunging for Targen, the other wheeling around Sarnai’s blind side. *Jochi: (A sigh of exasperation.) Boy, they’re not here for tea. But if you insist on this ‘peaceful’ nonsense… the ‘Whispering Willow Disarm’ requires precise deflection. No smashing, remember? Just redirect their chi flow slightly. A tap, not a hammer blow.* As the shortblade plunged toward him, Targen shifted his weight while cradling the quieted bird against his ribs. His open hand met the incoming blow with fluid balance. He did not parry; he *deflected*. A brush of his palm against the assailant’s wrist pumped raw dragon chi through the man's forearm meridians, locking the sinews in an instantaneous cramp. The masked attacker cried out, his weapon clattering harmlessly against flagstones as he folded, limbs jerking uncontrollably. Sarnai, mid-parry, stopped cold as the remaining two assailants collapsed. Targen, barely looking up from the sparrow, met a sweeping kick with a flick against the attacker's ankle, turning the momentum until the man somersaulted headfirst into a shelf. He caught the third attacker's wrist, applied a clockwise twist, and the fingers went limp, dumping the weapon while the masked figure clutched his own throat in gasping shock. Within breaths, all three masked operatives lay writhing on the flagstones, disarmed and utterly paralyzed, their meridians knotted tight without a drop of blood spilled. Targen placed the mended bird onto a high ledge, where it chirped once before darting out the broken pane. He turned to Sarnai, wearing a courteous smile. “There, you see? All resolved without bloodshed. Perhaps they simply wished to check out a text?” He gestured toward the floored squad, then paused at their tunics. “Oh, look, they bear the serpent badge. Rather ornate garb for library clerks, wouldn’t you agree?” Sarnai stared at the serpentine stitching, a grim realization settling into place. Missing initiates, vanishing ledgers, rumors in the lower peaks—every thread led back to the high council's inner sanctum. Targen, this unfailingly polite, infuriating, inexplicably dangerous youth, had verified what she had suspected for months. He was no longer merely an anomaly; he was a bludgeon. She looked from him to the squirming figures on the floor, then back up. Her jaw set hard. “Targen,” she said, her voice dropping to a sharp murmur. “I have a proposal. You will serve as bait to draw out the Grand Elder's conspirators. Or I haul you before the Sect Leader this evening for cultivating outlawed methods.”

Shadow Assassins and Plum Wine