That's it?

The grand restaurant, Lanling, sat nestled on the edge of the bustling capital, a marvel of architecture and opulence. Its lavish design was a reflection of both wealth and culture—golden pillars adorned with jade carvings stood tall, arching over vast, polished tables. Above, intricate chandeliers cast a warm glow over the guests, whose laughter and clinking glasses filled the room. Waiters moved around attending to the guests.

The soft murmur of a stringed orchestra blended with the murmurs of high-ranking officials, merchants, and noble families.

A group of women, dressed in gossamer-red silk, swayed with perfect synchronization. Their delicate movements floated like a gentle breeze, each step, each flick of the wrist, a dance of precision. The soft melodies of a flute accompanied their graceful performance, and the guests leaned forward to witness the hypnotic elegance. The crimson curtains surrounding the dancers fluttered slightly, as if they too were enchanted by the scene.

But then—footsteps. Heavy, deliberate.

The atmosphere shifted.

A group of men, their faces lined with scowls and hard expressions, strode through the restaurant's grand doors. They wore dark robes with silver embroidery—each one marked with an unknown symbol . Their presence cast a shadow over the room, causing the chattering to die down. Eyes turned toward them, but no one dared to speak.

Without warning, the men moved in unison, their feet lifting effortlessly from the ground, soaring up through the air with fluid movements. The technique of Qingong, a martial art of flying through the air, was not that rare —only those that have attained a certain level in their cultivation could perform it. They ascended toward the dining balconies above, where prominent figures dined, oblivious to the coming storm.

Screams broke out as the men drew long, curved blades from their sides. The gleaming metal flashed ominously in the soft light of the chandeliers, and before anyone could react, the blades cut through the air with ruthless precision.

Chaos erupted below.

But just as the blades descended toward the helpless nobles, the red curtains shuddered. The dancers, who moments before had been floating like feathers in a dream, suddenly moved with purpose. Their silk robes twirled and snapped as they leapt into the air, blocking the men's path. The orchestra's music swelled, a discordant note of defiance against the impending bloodshed.

The leader of the dancers, a tall woman with striking features, flung herself forward, her movements sharp and elegant as a blade of ice. Her hands raised, she summoned a flash of energy, a faint but powerful aura that surrounded her body. She wasn't just a dancer—she was a cultivator.

With the grace of a swan, the woman collided with the nearest assailant. Her palm waved to his chest, sending him crashing into the nearby pillar with a violent crack. He groaned, struggling to rise, but the dancer's form flickered once more, vanishing into the red curtains. She reappeared behind him, her foot sweeping low, catching him off guard and sending him sprawling to the ground.

Before he could recover, her other leg shot forward, striking him square in the chest with enough force to leave him gasping for breath.

Meanwhile, the other dancers, swift and silent, engaged with the remaining attackers. One flew up, spinning in the air, and kicked a man in the back, sending him tumbling down the staircase.

Another dancer blocked the strike of an attacker with a cup she had gotten from who knows where , her movements as fluid as water. The attackers, despite their weapons and strength, were no match for the dancers' combined speed and precision.

From the balcony above, the musician—clad in a flowing red gown—continued to play her instrument. Her fingers moved with perfect rhythm, despite the chaos below.

The haunting melody seemed to intensify the battle, as though the music itself was urging her comrades forward. Her eyes, cold and detached, observed the men who were struggling to fight back, but her expression betrayed no emotion. She was the calm in the storm.

The men, armed with cruel intent, began to fight back, but it was clear they were outmatched. One swung his blade down toward a dancer's head, only for her to twist around him, disarming him with a swift flick of her wrist. The blade skittered across the floor, and before the man could retrieve it, she thrust her palm into his abdomen, sending him flying into a table, knocking it over.

Another assailant lunged at the leader of the dancers. He was quick, his strikes coming in quick succession, but she was faster. She ducked under his first swing, dodged his second, and in the span of a breath, she was behind him. With a sharp twist of her body, she snapped her elbow into his back, forcing him to the ground. He gasped, struggling to breathe, but the dancer had no mercy. She placed a boot on his back, keeping him pinned as she calmly surveyed the rest of the room.

The sounds of clashing metal, bodies hitting the floor, and the cries of pain mixed with the desperate shuffling of the guests, who had begun scrambling in every direction, trying to escape the madness.

A few noblemen dashed toward the doors, while others ducked under tables, hiding their faces in fear. The restaurant, once a place of refined celebration, had descended into anarchy.

Through it all, the music never stopped. The musician's fingers danced over the strings of her guqin, each note resonating with the power of a thousand years of cultivation. The men may have been armed, but their weapons were useless against the precision and purity of the dancers' movements.

One by one, the attackers were disarmed, their attempts to fight futile against the skilled dancers. Their bodies lay in crumpled heaps, groaning and defeated, as the last of the assailants tried to crawl toward the door. But even he did not get far. A dancer appeared before him, blocking his path. With a swift motion, she raised her hand and summoned a gust of wind that knocked him to the ground, his body sliding across the polished floor.

The restaurant fell silent.

The last of the attackers lay motionless, their bodies scattered across the dining hall. The guests, too frightened to move, remained still, their eyes wide in shock. No one dared to speak.

The leader of the dancers stepped forward. Her silver mask, revealing sharp, cold eyes and a face set in a mask of indifference. Her robes, red,once flowing in elegance, now white , intricately designed with plum blossoms seemed like armor. They all had changed their attire at a point, but no one had the luxury to notice when.

The music stopped, and all that remained was the haunting silence of the restaurant.

"That's it? " The leader's voice was calm, but it carried the weight of authority.

The guests, too afraid to answer, merely watched in stunned silence.

The woman gave a single nod, her expression unreadable, before turning away. Her dancers followed suit, and within moments, the entire group had vanished into the shadows, leaving behind only the wreckage of what had once been a grand celebration.

But as the dust settled and the last of the frightened onlookers gathered their wits, one question remained on their lips: Who were they? And why had they come?