Shadow and Steel: A Night Visit to Heaven’s Terrace

The black-clad figure crouched beneath the shadows of the inner courtyard wall, his sharp eyes scanning every corner like a feral beast awaiting the perfect moment to strike.

Heaven's Terrace Manor was no mere decorative name. Though its elegant halls and tranquil courtyards appeared serene by day, hidden within were layers upon layers of traps, sentries, and masterful guards whose senses were as keen as blades.

The intruder—this shadow in the dark—had infiltrated the estate more than once. And every time, he'd slink away with nothing to show for it. Not for lack of skill, but because the manor's defenses were absurdly tight. Getting in without alarming anyone? It was a task more difficult than scaling the heavens.

More than once, he had watched those arrogant martial artists—convinced of their stealth and strength—sneak in with sly grins, only to be hurled out moments later like mangy dogs. Those men left behind screams, shattered dantians, severed tendons, and tongues sliced cleanly from their mouths. Their wounds had salt rubbed into them—literally.

It wasn't cruelty. It was policy. In Dingzhou, a city plagued with bandits and killers, mercy was a luxury one could not afford. Without a deterrent, the vermin would multiply.

But not all monkeys fear the blood of chickens. And this one—the shadow—was a bold monkey indeed.

Maybe he was afraid. Maybe his heart trembled at the stories. But the moment he laid eyes on Miss Du earlier that day, every scrap of fear had been devoured by unholy desire.

The saying exists for a reason: Lust emboldens the fool.

Tonight, luck favored him. He had slipped past the walls undetected and crouched for over half an hour, yet no trace of hostile presence revealed itself. Was security thinner than usual tonight?

Suppressing his excitement, he moved silently toward the western wing.

There lay a garden, a man-made hill, a bubbling creek, and blossoming trees. But he hadn't come for a midnight stroll.

Beyond that beauty stood a tower—a delicate, ornate pavilion. That was his true destination.

His qinggong was nearly supernatural. Each step barely touched the ground before launching him several yards ahead. Even a single blade of grass was enough for him to use as leverage—its softness no barrier to his balance.

Now, hiding within the rocks of the miniature mountain, just fifteen zhang from the pavilion, he paused. Still no aura. Still no guards.

His heart pounded. One more leap across a pond and he'd be beneath the tower. From there? The hard part would be over.

A seven-zhang-wide pond. Four zhang of grass. Three zhang of flower beds. One zhang of stone path.

Fifteen zhang—just one well-timed jump.

He steadied his breath, quieted the thunder in his chest, and returned to that serene emptiness martial masters chased their whole lives.

Then he moved.

From the rocky crevice, he sprang like a black cat ready to pounce, knees bent, body low, silent as death.

With a forceful push, he launched himself into the air like a cannonball. Whoosh! He skimmed the water, barely disturbing the surface save for a few drifting lily pads spinning in his wake.

He grinned. This was the only exposed area leading to the pavilion, devoid of cover. If a trap was going to spring, it would be here.

But nothing happened. No ambush. No blade. No chi pressure.

Had he finally made it?

He was just about to reach the tower when a calm, musical voice rang out above him:

"Riding the wind, I descend to pluck the flowers of heaven!Dear sir, on such a beautiful night, why sneak about? Why not invite a fair maiden for wine and moonlight instead?"

Startled, he jerked his head upward.

There, gliding through the air like a drifting leaf, was a young man dressed in sapphire robes, his long black hair combed immaculately. A folding fan in one hand, the other clasped behind his back, he floated beside the intruder, keeping pace with serene ease.

He wasn't even moving his limbs. His legs remained straight, arms relaxed. He simply drifted. Like a celestial being.

His presence defied understanding. Even the greatest qinggong needed surfaces to push from. Yet this man seemed to fly with the wind itself.

Unmoving hair while flying—truly, the peak of lightness skill.

The black-clad man was horrified. In a rasping whisper, he demanded, "Who the hell are you? Why spoil my night?!"

The young man smiled, then whispered directly into his ears with a voice carried on chi:

"I am the ninth son of the Dragon. The world's only carefree flower-picker!Brother, leave the beauties of this world to me.You… may rest now."

And with that, the youth gently extended his left hand—five zhang away—and brought it down with an effortless push.

The air itself screamed.

The intruder looked up, despair flooding his chest. That palm… it wasn't just powerful—it was cosmic. It felt as if heaven itself were collapsing onto him.

A vortex tore through the sky, stealing his strength, his courage, his will to live.

BOOM.

It was like slow motion. His body, caught in that overwhelming chi field, began to break apart piece by piece. First his head, then limbs, then organs, all disassembled like a puzzle coming undone.

Every drop of blood, every splash of red, hung in the air like flowers blooming in reverse.

And then, gently as snow, what remained of him drifted into the pond. The fish surged forward, eager for their meal.

Up above, the young man glanced at his palm and gave a faint smile.

"Hmm… my 'Mighty Vajra Palm' grows stronger yet."

Footsteps echoed from the courtyard. Over a dozen armored men, torches in hand, stormed in, led by a red-clad brute whose eyes gleamed with the light of seasoned violence.

The brute looked up, saw the floating youth, and chuckled.

"Young Master Li! What divine technique! That damned flower thief Zhang Ziyi had the best stealth around. He could sense hidden experts and vanish before we could trap him. If not for your aid tonight, we'd never have taken him down!"

The man in blue smiled like a noble immortal.

"Of all the villains in this world, I loathe flower thieves most. My 'Mighty Vajra Palm' was created to crush evil with divine strength.Wherever a flower thief lurks—I shall find him. One thief, one kill. Two? I'll kill them both!No need for thanks. This is my sacred duty."

The red brute bowed deeply.

"Miss Du awaits you in the side courtyard, Young Master. We shall take our leave."

As they vanished into the night, their torches flickered against something strange—a nearly invisible steel wire beneath the youth's feet. If not for the reflection, one would truly think he floated in the air.

Once alone, the young master descended with feather-light grace. So smooth, it made one wonder if he even needed the wire at all.

"Hmph," he muttered, smirking, "If not for bluffing those fools, would I bother with wires? Everyone knows Qin Ren's qinggong is unmatched. To hide my identity, I pretend to be 'Li Gang'—a second-rate flyer.Thank heavens they didn't recognize my 'Mighty Vajra Palm' as the legendary 'Heaven-Covering Hand.' If they had, my cover as Young Master Li would've been blown!"

Chuckling, he twirled his fan and strolled across the moonlit lawn toward Miss Du's courtyard.

He knew his infamy was growing. The world called him a villain, a rogue, a heartless predator.

He was offended—but only slightly. After all, he had seduced a number of ladies.

The world hunted the "Third Young Master." But the Third Young Master had no interest in being hunted. Laziness was a virtue, after all. So he took up the name from his past life—Li Gang—and claimed to be from a mysterious sect no one had ever heard of.

His specialties? Qinggong. The Heaven-Covering Hand.

Few people even knew what that technique looked like in practice. So he called it something new—"Mighty Vajra Palm." And no one suspected a thing.

After all, a strike that could flatten walls and turn men into puddles? "Mighty" and "Vajra" didn't sound out of place.

With his work done, Third Young Master—alias Li Gang—was ready to pay Miss Du a midnight visit.

His hatred for other flower thieves? Genuine.

In this profession, there was no room for competition.

Third Young Master didn't believe in sharing.

He believed in monopoly.