The wind over the ridge carried the smell of iron.
Li Zhen stood still, eyes closed, listening to the silence that followed. Not the absence of sound, but the kind that teetered on the edge of violence. The kind that arrived before the blood was spilled, when time itself seemed to draw a breath.
He tightened his grip on the hilt of the sword across his back.
They had followed him since Hengkou.
At first, he thought they were part of the same watchers—those distant silhouettes that disappeared whenever he turned. But these were different. They didn't hide. They didn't linger in the background.
They were getting closer.
And they wanted the sword.
The mercenaries had chosen a poor place to ambush him—if they had thought to corner him here, atop a narrow crag at the edge of a ruined forest, they were fools. Or perhaps they simply believed in overwhelming force.
He counted seven.
Five had already stepped into view. The others he felt, breathing just out of sight, waiting for the first clash. Their movements were practiced, precise, but not silent. Professional, not spiritual. He didn't sense the presence of cultivators among them—just killers who'd tasted war.
He opened his eyes.
The leader stepped forward—a tall woman with short hair dyed the color of ash, her armor pieced together from the remains of half a dozen clans. One gauntlet bore the crest of the Golden Path Sect, another the stylized flame of the Fallen Sun Brigade. She smiled without warmth.
"Swordsman," she said, "we were told you'd come this way. Word spreads fast when someone starts tearing through fate like a blind god."
Li Zhen said nothing.
"We're not here for your life," she added. "Only the sword."
At his back, the blade purred softly, like a cat stretching before a kill.
"No," Li Zhen said.
The woman tilted her head. "No to which part?"
"No, you're not here just for the sword," he replied, "and no, you won't leave with either."
One of the others laughed. "Big words for a dead man walking."
Li Zhen stepped forward.
The air thickened.
Something inside him unraveled—not like a man drawing a weapon, but like a door opening in his blood. The blade slid from its sheath like it had been waiting. For a moment, light caught on its surface and the wind ceased.
The woman clicked her tongue. "You still think that sword makes you whole."
He didn't answer.
She drew two hooked blades from her sides and surged forward, her movements fluid and full of trained aggression.
The first blow was met with silence.
Not steel. Not resistance.
Just silence.
Li Zhen's body moved before thought—guided not by memory, but instinct older than death. He parried her strike, twisted around, and brought the flat of his blade crashing into her shoulder. She flew sideways, striking the cliff wall with a grunt.
The others reacted immediately.
Two came at him with spears, thrusting in unison to skewer him from opposite angles.
He stepped between them, letting the rhythm guide him.
His sword danced.
One spear shattered. The other clattered to the ground with its wielder still attached, screaming as his fingers separated from his hand in neat arcs.
Li Zhen turned and ducked a third strike.
Blood sang in his ears.
The woman returned, angrier, faster. Her left blade came low while the right arced toward his throat. He blocked one and let the other slide past, tearing into his shoulder. Pain flared bright, but he welcomed it.
Pain reminded him he was alive.
He retaliated with a vicious slash, not toward her, but at the ground. Stone cracked, debris flew. She leapt back—but not before the edge of his blade kissed her cheek.
The others circled.
They didn't speak now. Too focused. Too afraid.
He could feel the fear rising. Not from them—from himself.
Something inside him was changing. Shifting.
The longer the battle stretched on, the less human he felt. His body obeyed, but his mind drifted. The sword knew moves he didn't. Knew enemies he hadn't fought. It struck with memories he didn't own.
And with each kill, a voice grew louder.
Is this who you were?
A man who kills without hesitation?
A blade before a name?
One of the mercenaries tried to flee.
He didn't let them.
By the time the last two fell—one bisected, the other impaled—the forest had gone still again. The crickets dared not chirp. The air stank of blood and fear. Li Zhen stood amid the corpses, breathing hard, the sword humming with quiet satisfaction.
He looked down at his hands.
They were slick with blood.
Not just from the battle.
From himself.
He dropped to his knees and exhaled shakily.
"Is this it?" he whispered. "Is this what I came back for?"
The sword didn't answer. It pulsed softly at his side, warm and alive.
Li Zhen stared at the sky.
It was twilight now. Red seeped across the clouds like a wound opening. He couldn't tell if the blood was his or the world's. Perhaps both. He wasn't sure anymore.
"Tell me the truth," he said to the blade. "Who was I before all this?"
The sword murmured low. "You were the one who ended wars. And began them."
He closed his eyes.
"I don't want to be that man."
"You already are."
A branch cracked behind him.
His hand shot up—but it wasn't another mercenary.
It was a child.
Thin, dirt-smeared, barely tall enough to hold the rusted kitchen knife in her hand. She looked no older than seven. But her eyes—cold, silver-ringed—were ancient.
"Did you come for the sword too?" he asked, voice hoarse.
She didn't answer. Only stared.
Then slowly, she sheathed the blade into a sash of red cloth tied around her waist.
She pointed toward the east.
"Others are coming," she said. "And they will not wait."
"Who sent you?"
"No one. I dreamt of your face in a pool of oil and teeth. They told me you would choose."
"Choose what?"
"If you want to be him again."
Li Zhen stared at her for a long moment.
Then looked down at the sword.
Then at the bodies.
He didn't speak.
The girl turned and walked away without another word.
He watched her until she disappeared into the trees.
Then he stood, wiped his blade clean, and turned toward the rising moon.
It was time to keep moving.
Whatever waited ahead—whoever hunted him—he would meet them not as a shadow of who he was, but as a man who refused to forget the weight of the lives he carried.