Chapter 18: A Debt in Blood

The wind howled through the ruins, flinging cold rain into Ling Chen's face. The stranger's grip around his throat remained firm—not choking, but a silent reminder of control. His breath was calm against Ling Chen's ear, an eerie contrast to the violent storm swirling around them.

Zhan Yi's obsidian blade remained poised, but he didn't move. His expression was carved from stone, but Ling Chen—through the razor-sharp edges of his senses—could feel the undercurrent of something dangerous pulsing beneath that stillness.

"You're making a mistake," Zhan Yi said, voice deceptively even.

The man laughed, low and amused. "I don't think so. You see, Zhan Yi, I remember what you used to be. What you are." He tilted his head, a cat playing with its prey. "But this? This is new. You don't usually let people get this close, do you?"

Zhan Yi's grip on his sword tightened. Ling Chen, even through the suffocating tension, noted the shift—the way the muscles in Zhan Yi's forearm flexed, the barely perceptible lean of his stance.

A warning.

The stranger must have noticed, too, because his grip on Ling Chen suddenly vanished—no gradual release, no hesitation. He simply wasn't there anymore.

Ling Chen staggered back, coughing, his senses flaring as he spun to locate his attacker. The man stood several paces away now, arms crossed, watching them like a scholar observing an experiment. The distance was deliberate. A statement.

"I could've killed him," the man mused. "But I didn't."

Zhan Yi didn't lower his sword. "That was your second mistake."

The man grinned. "And the first?"

Zhan Yi didn't answer. He moved.

The space between them collapsed in a breath, Zhan Yi's blade slicing through the rain-slicked air. The man barely sidestepped in time, but he was slower now—whether from miscalculation or something more insidious, Ling Chen couldn't tell. What mattered was that for the first time since he'd appeared, the stranger looked genuinely surprised.

The blade grazed his shoulder, and crimson bloomed against his dark robes.

For a moment, all was still. Then—

The man laughed. A quiet, broken sound. He lifted a hand to his wound, inspecting the blood with something like amusement. "You're faster than I remember."

Zhan Yi's stance remained unshaken. "You're slower."

Ling Chen's eyes flicked between them, the weight of something unspoken thick in the air. There was a history here, one built on blood and violence, and he was standing in the middle of it. He should have felt powerless. He didn't. Instead, something coiled inside him—an understanding, a connection forming between Zhan Yi's cold fury and the man's taunting familiarity.

"You still haven't told me your name," Ling Chen said, voice even.

The man turned to him, tilting his head. Then, slowly, he smiled. "Ah. He hasn't told you about me."

Ling Chen didn't blink. "Should he have?"

The man chuckled. "I wonder. How much do you really know about Zhan Yi, Silent Weaver?"

Ling Chen refused to take the bait, but beside him, he felt Zhan Yi's energy shift—a ripple of something just beneath the surface.

The man's smile widened. "He won't tell you. Not yet. But you'll find out soon enough."

And then, before either of them could react, he stepped back—into the mist, into the rain—vanishing as if he had never been there at all.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Ling Chen exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering chill of that presence. He turned to Zhan Yi. "Well, that was unpleasant."

Zhan Yi's grip on his sword didn't relax. "We need to move."

Ling Chen narrowed his eyes. "Who was he?"

Zhan Yi hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second. But Ling Chen caught it. Felt it.

"A debt," Zhan Yi finally said, sheathing his sword. "One I thought had been paid."

Ling Chen watched him for a moment, his senses drinking in the tension coiled in Zhan Yi's frame, the weight in his voice.

He could push for more. He didn't.

Not yet.

Instead, he nodded once and turned toward the storm-torn ruins. "Let's go."

Zhan Yi followed. The past could wait. For now, survival came first.