Chapter 17: The Blade and the Storm

A heavy mist coiled around the ruined temple, seeping through the cracks like a living thing. The scent of damp stone and old blood hung thick in the air. Somewhere in the distance, a branch snapped—a sound too deliberate to be the wind.

Ling Chen tightened his grip on the dagger hidden in his sleeve. His heartbeat was a war drum in his ears, his senses stretched so thin he could almost feel the shifting of the air. They weren't alone.

"They've found us," he murmured.

Zhan Yi didn't move. His dark eyes swept the ruins, calm as a frozen lake. "They never lost us."

A shadow flickered past the broken pillars. Then another. The enemy was closing in, silent as wraiths.

Ling Chen exhaled slowly. "So what's the plan?"

Zhan Yi didn't reply immediately. He stepped forward, drawing his sword in one fluid motion. Moonlight caught on the obsidian blade, glinting off its lethal edge. "Stay behind me."

Ling Chen bristled. "Excuse me? I can—"

"You're not fast enough." Zhan Yi's voice was quiet, final. "And you hesitate."

The words stung, but Ling Chen swallowed his retort. He knew Zhan Yi was right—his body still ached from their last battle, his energy reserves dangerously low. And hesitation? That had nearly gotten him killed before.

The first assassin struck without warning, a streak of black against the pale mist. Zhan Yi moved like a shadow unchained, parrying the attack with chilling precision. Sparks flew as steel met steel, the clash reverberating through the ruins.

Ling Chen barely had time to react before another attacker lunged at him. He twisted aside, dodging the blade by a breath. His senses screamed—another one, from behind. He dropped low, sweeping his dagger in a vicious arc. The assassin stumbled, blood blooming across his robes.

Zhan Yi's blade cut through the air with ruthless efficiency, his movements precise and merciless. The assassins fell around him like broken puppets, their bodies crumpling into the dust. He fought without wasted motion, without hesitation. Ling Chen had seen skilled warriors before, but Zhan Yi was something else entirely. He wasn't just fighting—he was erasing them.

Ling Chen barely had time to regain his footing before another figure emerged from the fog. Unlike the others, this one didn't rush to attack. He moved with measured steps, confidence coiled in every motion. His eyes gleamed like a predator's.

"Zhan Yi," the man greeted, voice smooth as oil. "It's been a long time."

Zhan Yi's grip on his sword tightened, a subtle shift, but Ling Chen caught it.

"Who is he?" Ling Chen asked, voice low.

Zhan Yi didn't answer.

The man smiled, tilting his head. "Still so silent, old friend? No warm welcome for me?"

Ling Chen's stomach twisted. Old friend. The way he said it was wrong—mocking, edged with something dangerous.

The man turned his gaze to Ling Chen, eyes glinting with amusement. "And this must be your new companion. I wonder… does he know what you've done?"

Ling Chen's fingers curled around his dagger. "What are you talking about?"

Zhan Yi stepped forward, placing himself between them. "Leave."

The man laughed. "Ah, there's the Zhan Yi I remember. Always so cold." His expression darkened. "But you can't run from the past forever. You owe me. And I've come to collect."

Lightning split the sky. The storm had arrived.

Before Ling Chen could react, the man moved—faster than he should have been. The air itself seemed to ripple around him.

Zhan Yi met him head-on, their blades clashing in a storm of sparks. The force of the impact sent a shockwave through the ruins, cracking stone and kicking up a whirlwind of dust. Ling Chen staggered back, his senses screaming—something was wrong.

The man wasn't just fast. He was unnatural.

Zhan Yi's movements were sharper now, his attacks more brutal. No longer just fighting—eliminating. But the man only smiled, as if he had been waiting for this.

"Show me, Zhan Yi," he taunted. "Show me the monster you've become."

Zhan Yi's sword sliced through the air, missing by a fraction. The man slipped past him, suddenly behind Ling Chen—

Too fast—

A cold hand closed around Ling Chen's throat.

"One wrong move," the man murmured, "and I snap his neck."

Zhan Yi froze. Ling Chen barely dared to breathe, the grip at his throat tightening just enough to warn. The air turned heavy, thick with unspoken danger.

Then Zhan Yi's voice cut through the storm. Low, steady. Deadly.

"Let him go."

The man chuckled, but Ling Chen felt the tension in his grip—tight, almost reluctant. "Interesting," he mused. "So he's important to you."

Zhan Yi didn't reply. But his knuckles were white against the hilt of his sword.

Ling Chen's breath caught. The realization struck him like a blade to the gut.

I'm important to him?

The storm raged overhead. The wind howled through the ruins, carrying the unspoken weight of a battle yet to come.

And in the eye of the storm, Zhan Yi's eyes burned with something terrifying.

"If you hurt him," he said, voice like the edge of a blade, "I will destroy you."