The wind in Shanliu shifted as the sun climbed.
Morning's firelight spilled across curved rooftops and hanging prayer flags, stretching long shadows across stone. In the hush between temple bells and hawker cries, Chen Yun walked like water without ripples—his cloak brushing the ground with every unhurried step.
Beside him, Jie Lun hustled, glancing over his shoulder too often, his breath still shaky from the encounter in the Western Quarter.
They passed incense stalls along the city's edge, smoke curling in lazy spirals—like ghosts with no altars left to cling to.
"Don't look behind," Chen Yun said without turning. "If they follow, we'll know."
Jie Lun swallowed and nodded, shrinking into his robes.
The path narrowed as they crossed into the messenger alleys—Shanliu's forgotten ribs. Here, doors were sealed not with locks, but silence. Shrines were hollowed into passageways. Old stone smelled of moss, rust, and secrets.
"My drop's just through there," Jie Lun murmured, pointing to a crumbling lion god, half-eaten by vines.
Behind it, an enclosed courtyard sat sealed from three sides. Quiet. Deceptively still. But Chen Yun's gaze sharpened.
Footprints in the dust. Faint. Recent. Layered. Deliberate.
This was no forgotten shrine. It was a vein still pulsing beneath the skin.
Jie Lun dropped to his knees and lifted a loose floor tile. Beneath, a scroll tube wrapped in red twine waited like a buried heart. He slid another scroll inside, closed it carefully, and replaced the stone.
"Done," he whispered. "That's it."
But Chen Yun didn't respond.
He wasn't looking at the scroll.
He was listening.
His Qi—still subtly coiled around his spine—prickled, as if brushed by a whisper not meant for ears. A shift in air. A heartbeat out of place. A gaze pressing like a cold needle behind the ear.
Without turning, he asked:
"You felt it too?"
Jie Lun nodded once, eyes flicking to the rooftops.
"Two. Roof. Been tailing since the spice quarter."
Chen Yun's lips curved faintly—more acknowledgment than amusement.
"You've got a rat's instincts. Good."
And then—
Void Veil Step.
A single breath. A step that folded the air.
He vanished.
The lion statue trembled from the pressure as Chen Yun soared, his body wrapped in Qi so tightly it didn't shimmer—it disappeared. He landed on the roof like a falling feather.
The masked watchers turned too late.
Chen Yun didn't draw.
He didn't even stop.
His palm struck the first figure center-mass—no outward explosion, only a subtle drill of force. Qi entered the man's body like frost through brittle bark. His breath failed him before he could scream. He collapsed.
The second tried to leap away—panic in his Qi. A jagged bone saber snapped from a shoulder holster.
Chen Yun caught his ankle mid-flight.
He spun and slammed the man down onto the tiles. The roof cracked. The man choked on air.
No words.
Chen Yun's fingers touched the base of his neck. A flicker of golden Qi danced from nail to pulse—targeted, not destructive. Enough to paralyze. Not to kill.
He dragged the twitching man back down to the courtyard.
"W-What are you gonna do?" Jie Lun whispered.
Chen Yun knelt, face neutral.
He pulled the mask off.
Older than expected. Scarred face. Bloodshot eyes—not from fear, but from alchemy. The faint stench of herb-rot clung to his collar.
Chen Yun inhaled.
"Ghost Vine Elixir," he muttered. "Minor doses boost recall. Larger ones... overwrite loyalty."
Two fingers pressed to the man's temple.
Void Echo Extraction.
The man resisted—but weakly. Chen Yun's Qi entered with no force, only precision. A thread through the needle's eye.
Memory surfaced.
—Shadows kneeling.—Jade tokens bearing Stone Heart's mark.—This man whispering names.—A cold voice:
"The next tribute must include a full soul core. The Beggar Sect boy saw too much. Find him."
Chen Yun released him.
The man's head lolled, unconscious.
Chen Yun rose.
His eyes—usually calm—shone with glacial sharpness. Like steel cooled in winter water.
But even ice burns.
Quietly, Chen Yun raised his hand.
His fingers trembled—just slightly.
He turned his Qi inward.
Threads of it pulled taut. Small tears, where earlier techniques had taxed the meridians—particularly the ripple parry and the Void Veil Step. It wasn't severe. But it was real.
He exhaled.
"Still bearable," he muttered.
A pause.
Jie Lun broke the silence. "What now?"
Chen Yun looked east.
Beyond the rooftops, past the flickering bells of the Sky Bell Pavilion, the wind carried something foul.
"They're not trading in silver," he said, voice darkening. "They're stockpiling things… forbidden. Dangerous."
Jie Lun's voice was a whisper. "And the Stone Heart elders?"
Chen Yun nodded.
"Involved. Deeply."
A long silence.
Jie Lun shifted uneasily.
"So… what do we do?"
Chen Yun stepped forward, eyes narrowing.
Void Thread Pulse(虛脈追痕 – Xū Mài Zhuī Hén).
He pressed two fingers into the faint Qi residue left by the attackers. A shimmer trembled through the courtyard.
Their Qi was flawed—but still traceable.
A thread glowed.
Eastbound.
Toward the city's underbelly—where silence eats names.
"They led us here," Chen Yun said.
"But they led us wrong."
He began walking—soft, steady, unstoppable.
"Now we lead them."