Chapter 7; The Assassination Two

In a swift and instinctive motion, he flipped midair as the arrow hurtled toward him. A surge of spiritual energy erupted from his being, arresting the passing moment and granting him the opportunity to intercept the arrow just in time. Drawing his sword, known as Liu, its shimmering silver blade cast an imposing glow, even in the darkness. The sword, known as Liu, was crafted from the rarest of metals, possessing an exceptionally thin and slightly translucent form, bestowing upon it the lethal sharpness and glossy elegance reminiscent of a polished diamond. Such was its deadly precision that it could slice through glass or metals as effortlessly as through soft wood. Its hilt, fashioned from gold, imparted significant weight, making it impossible for an average person to wield; it demanded a formidable reservoir of internal energy to be mastered.
Ming Yuan remained acutely attuned to his surroundings, his senses honed to register the faint, imperceptible shift of dry leaves parting from nearby trees. His sharp gaze swiftly elevated to the sky at a moment's notice, where assassins descended from the tree upon him in a swift, airborne assault. Ming Yuan skillfully engaged in combat, wielding techniques and methods akin to frost and ice— precise, flawless, and unfailingly executed.
Amidst the distraction, a distant assassin loosed an arrow targeting the prince. Suddenly, a vibrant blue sword streaked towards the assailant, severing his hand. As the assassin turned, his gaze fell upon the wielder of the slender, mostly reflective blade—a prince adorned with curly, long hair. The distinctive sword, named Jie, resonated with pulsating energy, swiftly engaging in defensive actions against the oncoming threat.

Jie, one of China's renowned swords, had carved out its name through both the battles fought using it and those fought against it, much like the formidable Liu. Both revered and feared, Jie stood as a testament to power and mastery.
"Brother," Ming Huan announced his arrival, seamlessly joining the fray. A master of swordsmanship akin to Ming Yuan, Ming Huan's assaults mirrored the seamless and ferocious nature of the scorching sun. Amidst the perilous combat, Ming Huan called upon his spiritual energy, invoking the technique known as the Dance of Blaring Flames.
Amidst the chaos, Ming Huan's invocation released fiery and lightning-charged assaults upon the assassins. While some evaded with agile precision, others succumbed to the scorching brunt of the attack. In response, an assassin unleashed the devastating Tides of Black Turmoil technique—a formidable force capable of wreaking destruction akin to an atomic explosion upon anything or anyone it engulfed.

In a sudden turn of events, a female assassin tumbled to the ground, inadvertently colliding with Ming Yuan, leaving him beneath her. Ming Yuan locked eyes with the assassin, experiencing a rush of warmth and inexplicable tranquility that enveloped him, forging an unexpected connection. As Ming Huan intervened, swiftly pulling the assassin away from the frozen prince, the clash began. With a decisive thrust, the assassin deftly dodged, inadvertently severing her hairpin, causing her waist-length hair to billow and dance in the winds. Both princes stood in awe of the entrancing figure before them, marveling at her hidden beauty and the subtle departure from their traditional attire. Her striking gaze exuded sharpness and intelligence, revealing an alluring and captivating presence illuminated by the full moon's radiant glow.
"Retreat!" The assassin commanded, and in an instant, the presence of the rest dissipated as if they were never there. The imminent arrival of the imperial guards could be discerned in the short distance, prompting a swift dispersal as per the eighth prince's directive.

In the great Hall, the emperor's fury became palpable as he slammed his fists against the high table. Anger surged through his veins, visibly manifesting in the throbbing vein upon his forehead. "Insolence!" He thundered, his voice resonating through the hall. "Who granted them the audacity to ambush and attack my son and nephew?" Livid with anger, the two princes stood before the high table, observing his majesty's face contorted with fury.

"This must be the work of someone within the palace," remarked Ming Huan, his voice reflecting a calculated thoughtfulness. The notion that the imperial palace, heavily guarded due to ongoing festivities, could have been compromised only fueled the gravity of the situation.

The queen concealed an enigmatic smirk, relishing the unfolding events like a well-orchestrated riddle. The mention of the Black Mage assassins stirred a subtle yet unmistakable amusement within her, signaling her supremacy as a cunning force shaping the intricate game at play. These assassins, shrouded in formidable training and lethal expertise, could slip into the shadows at will, their presence instilling an air of foreboding unease even among the most seasoned of adversaries.

Meanwhile, within their secluded chamber shrouded in pure darkness, the assassins lingered. The only discernible illumination emanated from the flickering flames dancing atop white candles, casting eerie shadows within the room.
"We are sorry, sir. We failed," the head assassin admitted, his voice bearing a trembling undertone of remorse and fear. The collective assembly of assassins stood, their disquietude palpable in the air.

"Is that so?" The response carried a chilling blend of masculinity and an eerie edge, hinting at veiled intentions and a latent ferocity. Within the darkness, a figure manipulated a throwing knife, the faint glint caught by the trained eyes of the assassins, further eclipsing the atmosphere with an aura of imminent danger and unease.
In a swift movement, he extended his right hand, prompting the assassin to dodge, catching a glimpse of his chilling reflection in the passing knife. The mere brush of the blade prompted a subtle sigh of relief from the assassin, narrowly escaping the unwelcome embrace of death.
"I didn't pay you to fail. Come back after you have good news," he snapped with an air of authority and impatience. The head assassin, displaying deference, bowed in acknowledgment before the group stealthily departed.
"Master," a guard, cloaked in the darkness, his features obscured from view, respectfully presented a scroll to his unseen master, further shrouding the character in mystery and intrigue. The guard's hand burst into flame, casting an otherworldly glow across the hidden master. Removing the seal from the scroll, he perused its contents, a sly smirk playing on his lips. Holding the parchment against the flickering light, he observed with sinister glee as the scroll ignited and disintegrated into ash. Though his features remained obscure, his smirk contorted into a wickedly malevolent grin.

Within the seclusion of his residence, Ming Yuan resided in the inner chambers, immersed in deep meditation. The delicate scent of agarwood permeated the space, contributing to an atmosphere of tranquility and reflection. The interior, marked by simplicity, exuded an understated sense of artistry. Adorning the paper walls were murals depicting the nation's sprawling landscapes and serene natural vistas, capturing the inherent beauty of the surroundings. Though not overly invested in aesthetics, Ming Yuan possessed a subtle appreciation for the finer things in life. His preference leaned towards simplicity over extravagance, reflecting a nuanced and discerning sensibility. Beside his table rested a zither, meticulously crafted from the finest and rarest wood found in the country. With sixteen strings and adjustable bridges, the instrument measured approximately forty-seven inches in length and twelve inches in width. Its resonator, galley-shaped and featuring a curved top and flat bottom, stood as a testament to meticulous craftsmanship and artistic precision. Engrossed in his cultivation, Ming Yuan was enveloped in a subtle aura of frost and ice, delving deep into the mystic energies of his practice until an unanticipated interruption occurred. Despite the intrusion, Ming Yuan's demeanor remained unperturbed, recognizing the absence of any malicious intent harbored by the intruder.

"Brother," Ming Huan acknowledged, keenly noting the faint ripple of spiritual energy pervading the room. Astutely deducing that Ming Yuan was immersed in his cultivation, Ming Huan approached with a measured understanding, displaying an attuned sensitivity to the spiritual energies at play.

Sitting in the guest seat of his cousin's study, he surveyed the array of books, eventually selecting a pristine sheet of paper and a wooden brush, carefully grinding the ink as he pondered his subject. The image of a beautiful bunny began to take shape in his mind, her delicate and charming nature captivating his thoughts. Immersed in his thoughts, he carefully sketched the bunny's delicate head, meticulously capturing the captivating essence of her eyes. As he reached for the color paints, the sound of his cousin's approach alerted him. "Brother," Ming Huan respectfully greeted his cousin with a bow, to which Ming Yuan waved dismissively, stating,
"Don't stand on ceremony, we're peers, brother." Ming Yuan's personal guard, Hui Cufen, then entered with refreshments. After placing the tray, he offered a second bow to the princes before leaving the room.

Ming Yuan attentively poured a cup of fragrant green tea for his cousin, serving it with a sense of grace and care. Ming Huan, after taking in the aroma, delicately sipped the tea before setting the cup down.
"First brother," Ming Yuan addressed him, pausing briefly before continuing, "We found this at the Chinaberry." Ming Huan then produced a wrapped object from his sleeve, beginning to unwrap it.

Showing him an arrow with a sophisticated design, Ming Huan revealed its slender, long, and distinctly unique characteristics, distinct from standard feathered arrows. It bore specific carvings and the inscription "Unleash," a peculiar detail that caught Ming Yuan's attention.
"We caught one of the assassins," Ming Huan added, prompting Ming Yuan to gaze at his cousin intently in contemplation.
In a secluded cell within the imperial dungeon, a fiery young individual conducted an intense interrogation with an assassin. Cold water was methodically splashed upon the captive, who found himself tightly bound by chains of exceptional quality. Although the assassin initially contemplated escape, the formidable security measures made it seemingly impossible. The imperial dungeon, spanning three floors, housed an array of criminals—each floor encapsulating a different tier of detainment and severity. The imperial dungeon's first floor housed local criminals, while the second floor detained nobility and higher-ranked wrongdoers. The third floor, reserved for top-ranked and perilous criminals, also accommodated officials. Although appearing unremarkable from the outside, the interior was a labyrinth, complete with concealed traps that rendered navigation or escape all but impossible. In the midst of the interrogation, Fenhua, exuding a livid demeanor, seethed as he demanded, "Tell us who you are working for?"

Fenhua's undeniable rage and intense interrogation tactics exemplify his unwavering commitment to extracting critical information, Turning, Fenhua beheld the crown prince and the eighth prince, both clad in their winter coats and accompanied by their personal guards. The two royalty bore a striking resemblance, with one exuding an aura of frost and ice, while the other emanated the intensity of the scorching sun. "Greetings to the crown prince, eighth prince," he offered a low bow and salute as they neared. In response, the princes nodded and proceeded toward the prisoner, bound by unyielding steel chains. His countenance betrayed a pallid complexion as water cascaded from his drenched hair, forming a small pool on the ground. The reveal of the arrow bore a profound weight, prompting a momentary flicker of surprise in the assassin's eyes that swiftly dissipated into composure. Fenhua's narrowed gaze bore testament to an intensified vigilance within the tense exchange, while Ming Yuan, his voice measured and composed, initiated a query, only to be abruptly interrupted by a sudden impulsive movement.

An arrow, shot with startling precision, found its mark, piercing the assassin's form. His teeth gritted in pained resolve before vanishing from sight within a matter of seconds, leaving the room trembling with bewilderment and suspense. It became evident that the source of the arrow, as well as the identity of the assailant, eluded the brothers, sowing seeds of doubt and suspicion that gestured toward a disconcerting realization — the looming presence of a potential mole within their ranks.