Arc 2 – The Path of ShadowsWord Count: ~1,080
The valley held its breath.
Li Fan could feel it in the way leaves didn't rustle even in the wind, in the stillness of children who should have been playing, in the ghostly quiet of a village terrified of its own echo. The Silent Court had turned this place into a shrine of fear.
But fear had its limits. And tonight, he intended to find them.
They met beneath the broken shrine just before dusk.
The light was fading, but the warmth hadn't yet left the earth. Zhao Liang crouched by the earth-covered finger they had uncovered, now wrapped in cloth. Jiao sketched a quick perimeter map on a scroll with crude ink. Yue leaned against a tree, head tilted toward the direction of the village's well—listening.
Li Fan spoke low.
"We strike tonight. One move. We don't announce ourselves, we don't give them time to vanish. We cut off the head, and let the silence shatter with it."
Jiao nodded. "I found a cellar beneath the elder's house. Too large for grain storage. Could be where they meet."
Zhao narrowed his eyes. "If they're using rituals, there'll be guards. Fanatics. Maybe worse."
Yue turned slightly, her voice no louder than the wind. "There's movement tonight. Not just villagers. Whispers near the well. Metal scraping."
Li Fan's jaw tightened. "Then they know we're here."
Zhao looked up. "Should we pull back?"
"No." Li Fan's voice held iron. "We go forward. No more delays. If we wait, they'll disappear. And the village will rot from the roots."
He pulled his blade, the one he had forged himself when the Assassin Hall was reborn. Its edge gleamed faintly in the dusk light—not flashy, not refined, but deadly and quiet.
"Tonight," he said, "we answer fear with resolve."
The elder's house stood still as stone.
They approached from three directions. Jiao took the roof, creeping like mist across the tiles. Zhao entered through the back, sword drawn but low. Li Fan and Yue came through the front, steps deliberate.
The door was unlocked.
Inside, the air was thick with incense. Not the kind burned for prayers, but something cloying—bitter. It stung the eyes, made the skin crawl.
The elder was seated cross-legged in the main room.
But he was no longer just an elder.
His chest was bare, the twisted eye symbol carved directly into his flesh. Blood had dried like old ink. His eyes were glassy, his lips stitched shut with fine black thread.
Li Fan stepped forward slowly. "You did this willingly?"
The elder didn't move.
Then Yue gasped.
"He's not alive."
Li Fan blinked, looking closer. The body was too still. No breath. No twitch of the muscles.
Zhao emerged from the shadows. "Dead. Recently. Someone posed him like that."
A sound clicked beneath them.
Then the floor fell open.
They dropped into darkness.
Li Fan hit the ground in a crouch, rolling to soften the blow. Yue landed beside him lightly, barely making a sound. Zhao thudded down next, swearing as he caught himself on a beam.
The room they had fallen into was circular, carved into stone. Torches flickered along the walls—lit without presence. Along the walls, painted in blood and soot, the same symbol repeated: the twisted eye.
But it wasn't empty.
They were not alone.
Seven robed figures stood in silence, each bearing masks made of lacquered wood shaped like grinning faces. Behind them, an altar carved of black stone pulsed faintly, as though breathing.
Jiao dropped in last, two knives in hand. "Company."
One of the figures stepped forward.
He didn't speak, not with his mouth. His voice echoed directly into their minds, smooth as oil.
"You shouldn't have come."
Li Fan's heart skipped, but he didn't let it show.
"Silence doesn't belong to you," he replied. "You've poisoned this valley with fear. That ends now."
The masked figure tilted its head.
"Fear is purity. In silence, people obey. In obedience, they do not suffer more than they must. We grant them peace."
Li Fan tightened his grip on his blade. "You grant them death."
The figure opened its arms.
"Death is the only honest language left in this world."
Then the others moved.
They didn't fight like sect disciples. They didn't use grand techniques or flashy martial skills. They moved more like puppets—jerky, unnatural, but fast.
Zhao clashed blades with two, driving them back with sheer strength. Jiao darted through shadows, cutting tendons, slicing behind knees. Yue stayed close to the altar, ears tuned, dodging before attacks even came.
Li Fan engaged the masked speaker.
Their blades clashed once—then again.
This one moved with precision, a cold mimicry of practiced swordsmanship. But there was no rhythm. No breath. Just a hollow imitation.
Li Fan parried, twisted, stepped inside.
And stabbed directly through the figure's chest.
The masked man collapsed—but didn't bleed.
Inside the robe, there was no flesh. Only straw and strings.
A puppet.
Li Fan turned sharply. "They're not human!"
Jiao sliced another down, revealing the same straw interior. "Then where's the real threat?!"
Yue pointed toward the altar.
"The stone! It's pulsing with spiritual energy—corrupt, not human!"
Li Fan didn't hesitate. He ran toward the altar, blade raised—
And from the shadows behind it, something moved.
A cloaked figure stepped forth—no mask, no pretense. Eyes sunken, face gaunt, veins pulsing with dark qi.
"You shouldn't have come," the man rasped. "This village belongs to the Silent Court now."
Li Fan faced him, eyes burning.
"Not anymore."