The forest wind carried whispers.
Days had passed since the Violet Serpent outpost burned, its banners torn down in the dead of night, its guards scattered or silenced. The sect sent a search party the next morning, but the villagers nearby had already heard the tale—a shadow had come in the night, cutting down evil like wheat, leaving behind only justice and silence.
They didn't know his name. Not yet. But already, the stories had begun.
In the quiet corners of teahouses and by village fires, they called him Heiying—the Black Eagle. A ghost with a blade. A man who killed the wicked and left no trace.
Li Fan didn't care for the name.
He sat now in the shade of an old cedar tree behind the Assassin Hall, sharpening his blade in slow, rhythmic strokes. The steel sang softly, like a lullaby, but his eyes were distant, unfocused. Each stroke reminded him not of strength—but of responsibility.
"You're becoming a myth," Zhao Liang said from behind, arms crossed. "You should be careful. People start expecting gods from myths."
Li Fan didn't answer immediately. The whetstone slid down the blade again, clean and sure.
"I'm not a god," he said finally. "Just a man who's tired of waiting for justice to fall from the sky."
Zhao sighed and sat beside him, hands resting on his knees. "I know. But you're one man, Fan. You killed an elder of a mid-tier sect. That's not something they'll ignore."
"I didn't do it for glory."
Zhao looked at him sideways. "But you're getting it anyway."
Later that evening, the hall door creaked open again. This time, it wasn't Mei or Zhao.
It was an old man with a limp, his face worn like river stones, eyes rimmed red with age and something deeper—grief. Behind him stood a girl of maybe ten winters, clinging to his robes.
"Are you the one who... who cleans the rot from this world?" the old man asked, voice trembling.
Li Fan didn't answer.
The man reached into his robe and pulled out a wrapped cloth bundle. Inside was a single name, inked on parchment.
Chen Zishu. Village magistrate. Known for arresting and executing families under false charges, then seizing their properties.
"My son spoke against him," the old man said. "They dragged him into the fields. Beat him until his teeth were dust. Then they came for his wife. My granddaughter here... she hid in the hayloft while they slaughtered her mother."
Li Fan looked down at the name. The parchment felt heavy in his hands.
"Why me?" he asked quietly.
The old man looked up. "Because no one else will."
Li Fan felt a sharp ache in his chest—not from the story, but from how familiar it sounded. It was always the same—power unchecked, lives crushed, no recourse.
He nodded.
"I'll take care of it."
That night, he stood on the roof of a government outpost in Linhe town, cloaked in shadow. Below, in a lavish courtyard, Chen Zishu sat in comfort, sipping warm wine from a silver goblet, a servant girl kneeling beside him, eyes empty.
Li Fan watched for an hour. Two. Learning patterns. Waiting.
Justice had to be precise.
When he finally struck, there was no mercy.
He left no messages. No warnings. Just silence and a cold body.
And another name scratched off the list.
By dawn, the people of Linhe were already whispering.
The Black Eagle had returned.
But now, the whispers carried more than fear for the wicked—they carried hope.
People began leaving names. Slipping notes under the doors of the Assassin Hall. Names of the corrupt, the cruel, the untouchable. They came with tears, with coin, with offerings of rice and incense.
Zhao Liang looked at the growing pile one morning and frowned.
"This is getting out of hand."
Li Fan picked up a name. A merchant who trafficked orphaned children to bandits. Another name. A sect disciple who burned three farmers' homes over a land dispute.
"These people deserve justice."
Zhao didn't disagree. But his face was tight. "You can't carry this alone. You're not a blade. You're a man. Sooner or later, it'll break you."
Li Fan didn't reply. Because he knew Zhao was right.
And yet… he couldn't stop.
Not when he was finally doing something that mattered.
That night, he stood at the training ground behind the hall, torchlight flickering against his face.
Three villagers knelt before him—young men and women with steady eyes and quiet rage.
"I won't teach you to kill for coin," Li Fan said. "This hall is not for mercenaries."
They nodded.
"I'll teach you how to move unseen, how to fight, how to listen. But only if you understand one thing—once you take a life, you carry it forever. You don't get to be proud. You don't get to feel powerful."
He stepped forward, eyes locked with theirs.
"You get to sleep with the dead every night."
The recruits said nothing.
But they did not flinch.
Li Fan handed them each a training blade, blunt and heavy. It would take weeks before they'd even touch a real weapon.
And in that moment, watching them begin their first stance beneath the moonlight, Li Fan felt something shift.
Not power.
Not glory.
Responsibility.
Far to the north, deep within the mountains, a man in red robes sat cross-legged before a jade mirror. He watched the image of Li Fan, blurred and distant.
"The Black Eagle..." the man murmured. "He cuts quietly, but leaves loud echoes."
A shadow behind him shifted.
"Shall we clip his wings?"
The red-robed man smiled coldly.
"Not yet. Let the people sing a little longer. When the song is loud enough... then we silence it."