Chapter 13: Nightfall Shadows

The night air tasted of dew and distant fire. Jinmu Yeon stood alone on the roof of the modest inn he'd chosen to stay in while the Grand Open Tournament loomed closer by the day. His sword rested across his lap, half-drawn from its sheath, as if listening to the wind that whispered above the tiled roofs of Mugang City. Crimson moonlight bathed the world in a strange sheen, and even the stars tonight seemed uncertain, flickering like breathless watchers.

Still can't sleep... Jinmu exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the horizon as faint lanterns glimmered in the darkness. His mind had been stirring ever since the registration at Mugang Martial Pavilion earlier. He had seen Eun Haria again — the successor of the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace — calm and unreadable as ever, her every movement refined yet carrying the quiet tension of a drawn sword. That, combined with rumors of the Five Major Sect heirs joining the tournament, had left his thoughts restless.

She doesn't even look fazed… either she doesn't care about the tournament, or she's already confident she'll win it. But if someone like her has to join this fight, then maybe the scale of this thing is a lot bigger than I thought...

He traced the lip of his sword's guard, fingers faintly glowing with ki. Yeomhwa — Flame Blossom — the first sword he had forged with his own hands, pulsed with warmth even at rest, as if the fire within it breathed with him.

That was when he saw it.

Just beneath the western eaves of the city wall, a flurry of movement — not ordinary city guards nor drunken vagrants — but figures clad in black, robes whipping behind them as they dashed across rooftops with trained, practiced stealth. And at the front… two women. No — one of them was unmistakable.

"…Eun Haria?" Jinmu's voice came out quietly, but the syllables struck like a stone falling into still water.

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. Even at this distance, her silver-white uniform trimmed in lotus was distinct against the black-robed pursuers behind her. She moved with agility, dodging across beams, flipping midair, and evading blades drawn under moonlight. But she wasn't alone. Another figure fought alongside her — the female martial artist Jinmu had seen earlier that day at the registration grounds. The two of them moved in sync, like twin petals swirling in a storm.

"Who the hell...?" Jinmu didn't finish the sentence. His body was already moving.

In a blur, he leapt from the roof and vanished into the shadows.

I wasn't planning to get involved tonight. Not yet. Not until the tournament. He ran low, his breath quiet, each step silent across stone and beam as he followed the trail of chaos. But that's the Yeonhwa successor... and they're clearly being targeted. What kind of moron attacks someone like her in a city filled with martial elites?

It didn't take long to catch up.

From his perch above a quiet alley where a collapsed tile path led to a walled garden, Jinmu saw it — the battle had already begun.

Four black-robed martial artists had cornered the two women in a clearing between two temple buildings. The assassins moved with lethal precision, each of them releasing sharp bursts of ki, mid-expert level at minimum. Swords clashed against gleaming fans and a gleaming twin dagger technique, every blow echoing against the walls with frightening resonance.

Eun Haria stood at the center of it all, calm and sharp like a frozen lotus blade. She parried an overhead strike with the curve of her right arm guard and drove her left palm forward, releasing a burst of inner ki that sent her attacker flying into a wall.

The other woman — equally formidable — moved like water turned to steel. Her long braid snapped with every twist of her body as she ducked under one attacker's blade and slashed upward, drawing a clean line across his chest. He stumbled back, blood spraying into the dark.

They're holding their own... but not for long. Jinmu's gaze swept across the rooftop. There's five total... no, six. One of them is still in the shadows. Watching. Waiting. That means they're not just amateurs. This isn't a simple robbery or grudge attack.

He reached into his inner robe and pulled out the mask — the one he had crafted from the same materials as Yeomhwa. Smooth red, trimmed with crimson streaks that shimmered subtly under the moonlight. He slid it over his face, feeling the ki-infused structure meld into his skin like a second soul.

SHHHH...

The wind seemed to hush as he crouched at the edge of the roof. His pulse remained calm, eyes locked on the battlefield below.

Should I jump in? He gripped the hilt of Yeomhwa but didn't move. If I help her now... what does that mean? That I'm siding with the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace? That I'm not just a masked martial artist, but someone involved in her battles?

He inhaled sharply.

No. Not yet. I can't move blindly. I need to see who they are first — those black robes... they're too uniform. They're trained. Professional. Possibly hired killers. But by who?

The thought twisted inside him like a blade. And more importantly... why now? The tournament hasn't even begun.

Below, the black-robed figures shifted formation. Two of them retreated, circling behind a row of statues, and flared their ki. One struck his blade into the ground, releasing a low pulse that crackled against the dirt — some kind of formation trap.

"That's not good," Jinmu murmured, his voice muffled by the mask.

Why is this bothering me so much? He glanced toward Eun Haria again. She's strong. She's probably fine. But something about this... it doesn't sit right. They're trying to exhaust her. They're not here to kill. Not yet. They're testing her strength — her reactions.

Another pulse of realization hit him.

This might not be an assassination. It might be reconnaissance. For the tournament... or worse. Someone wants to know how strong she really is. They're gathering data.

He clenched his fists.

If I jump in now, I'll expose myself. But if I don't...

His teeth ground together behind the mask. He hated this part — this hesitation. This waiting game. He had been decisive on the battlefield before, ruthless when needed, but this time it wasn't about enemies and allies. It was about understanding the chessboard before moving a piece.

The battle below raged on.

Eun Haria took another slash across her shoulder but retaliated instantly, cutting her attacker's arm wide open in response. The other woman — expression fierce, determined — was starting to slow, her breathing heavier as her footwork began to waver.

Damn it, Jinmu exhaled. If she falls, it's over. And she's clearly fighting to protect the Yeonhwa successor. They're both holding back the moment of collapse.

His hand twitched again toward his sword.

But he still didn't move.

Not yet.

He crouched lower, melting into the shadow behind a rusted bell tower. If the black-robed figures had a leader among them, that person hadn't acted yet. The real danger might not even have begun.

And then… in the farthest corner of the garden, beyond the flames of the fight, there is a movement.

A figure.

No mask. Just robes. Quiet. Calm. Watching from a stone wall, arms crossed.

Jinmu's eyes narrowed. Who—?

The watcher didn't move. Didn't blink.

Just kept observing.

Moonlight draped the courtyard like silk, but the pallor it gave to death was chilling. Jinmu remained motionless in the shadows, sword sheathed on his back, red mask hidden beneath the eaves—his entire being anchored by silent decision. He had watched from above as black-robed experts cornered Eun Haria and her ally. Now the aftermath unfolded.

The figure appeared—tall, composed, stepping out as if cutting through the night air itself. This newcomer wore a black robe identical in pattern to the others, but his presence spoke of something far greater. His gait was precise, measured—the way a true Peak Master moved. Energy hummed around him, visceral and dangerous.

One of the female martial artist lay on the ground, motionless. Eun Haria hobbled to her side, unsteady, grief flickering across her pale face. She clutched her friend's hand and murmured something—and then looked upward. Fear etched into her eyes.

The newcomer walked with a glacial calm. His face was all angles: sharp cheekbones, half-closed eyes lit with certainty, a gaze that cut through the darkness the way a blade cuts through silk. His voice when he spoke was smooth, soft—but menacing.

"Move aside," he said simply. Not raised or angry—commanding. As if he already stood above the laws of life and death.

Eun Haria shook her head, free hand trembling in readiness. "I won't leave her," she said, voice steady even though tears sprung in her eyes. Her right hand — she had never drawn her sword. She fought palm techniques, graceful but deadly. Now, though injured, she raised one hand—ki flaring faint purple—and then tampered it back. Exhaustion etched through her movements.

The Peak Master shrugged as he stepped closer. "That was redundant," he said. "The Crimson Flow Blade Union doesn't mourn the weak."

His hand slid into his inner robe's sleeve. He pulled out a long, crimson-hilted sword—veined with black. It shone, coil-like, dull but deadly.

Eun Haria stood. She bowed her eyes at the fallen, steadied herself. Her voice shook, but she spoke as if reciting a vow.

"So I stand. Against you. Despite everything."

The sword in his hand glanced in the moonlight. He smiled once — cold and brief, as though all the warmth of his life was never needed.

"You are the Heir of Lotus Palace," he said. "No wonder they sent you out. But I am the Crimson Flow's blade—the one who carves paths where none exist."

Jinmu felt something heavy inside him freeze. He'd heard whispers—Crimson Flow's pinnacle cultivator had come to the city. Its identity was secret. But this figure was it.

Eun Haria took a fighting stance—not calm, not graceful, but resolute. Even with a bloody sleeve, torn slippers, and shaky footwork, she pulled in her ki and closed her posture like a lotus folding before frost.

A breeze blew across the courtyard, eaves rattling overhead, but Jinmu did not move. He stood far enough back to remain hidden, silent in the rafters of the temple roof.

Below, the Peak Master whispered.

"Answer me this—will you collapse in flowered martyrdom? Or stand and be cut?"

Eun Haria didn't answer. She didn't raise her palm. Instead…

She breathed.

It was soft. Controlled. A moment of stillness that carried more weight than the moonlit blade.

And then she launched herself forward, a blossoming pink blur. Her hand, each trailing waves of ki—petals converted to steel. Her technique flowed, unexpected and beautiful.

She landed a strike that sketched across the crimson sword's guard—but barely. He absorbed the blow. And with one motion, she recoiled under his stance.

He moved like suppressing fire, closing distance but refined, tempered to inward motion. His sword sliced across her. Eun Haria staggered backward, then collapsed to one knee.

She drew breath and shot ki through her fingertips—thin blade of energy—but it flickered, dissipating under his parry.

He blocked and disarmed, stepping behind her with ease. The kill zone was practiced. He whispered under his breath:

"Yield, young blossom. Or open your petals for me."

Eun Haria lifted her head—pain filling her breath, her rotator cuff twitching faintly. Blood trickled from her chin. But her eyes still glowed with resolve.

She spat blood, raised one hand in a trembling strike—but he raised his sword.

With no flourish, the Crimson Master pressed his blade to her throat.

His voice was barely a whisper, but it froze the air.

"You had your chance."

Eun Haria's eyes widened. She tried to speak—no sound came. Her breath choked as his sword edge gently skimmed past her skin—not pressing, but a whisper of death.

Then he drew back.

His blade dissolved into darkness. He wiped a faint smear of red upon his sword's gauntlet, then turned and walked away.

Eun Haria slumped against her fallen companion. Tears pooled in her eyes, but she didn't collapse completely. She closed her hand over her heart, gaining orientation. Slowly, painfully, she pressed herself up.

Her lips moved in whisper.

"I will not..."

But no sound escaped.

Jinmu watched from above, heart roaring behind his mask.

He had intended to follow—they must have underestimated the Crescent edges of the martial world. But now…

She almost died.

Without a fight.

An instinct stirred in him—not regret. Not cowardice. But clarity.

This wasn't just enemies testing Eun Haria. It was an all-out ambush. A single Peak Master handwriting destiny with a blade—and claiming what he wanted.

He swallowed against his pounding pulse. For a heartbeat, he wondered if he should leap down. But something held him.

Not yet.

He pressed his hand over his heart—outside the sword's hilt—and breathed.

Because if I do this now, it changes everything.

It was the beginning—but also the incrimination.

He stared across the courtyard at Eun Haria. An echo of resistance lingered in her stance, despite broken will.

Jinmu did not leave the shadows for a long while.

He leaned forward slightly, gaze sharp behind his crimson mask.

They left her alive on purpose, he thought, jaw tightening. A message... or bait. And she doesn't even realize it yet.

He didn't move. Not yet. His fingers stayed steady on the beam, but the blood in his veins had long since caught fire.

There's a Peak Masters. She wouldn't have lasted two exchanges if that man wanted her dead. He let her live.

He scanned the courtyard one more time. Haria's breathing had slowed—she wasn't unconscious, but she was no longer trying to stand. She remained frozen there, surrounded by silence and fading traces of battle.

Jinmu inhaled slowly through his nose, then turned and stepped across the roof tiles without a sound, descending into the night. His footsteps landed on soft dirt behind the temple wall—silent, calculated. He didn't look back.

Now wasn't the time to show myself.

He made his way through the shadows, following the departing martial artists from a safe distance. Their steps were too confident, too relaxed for men who had just fought the successor of Yeonhwa Lotus Palace. That made them more dangerous, not less.

They think they've won something, Jinmu thought. They believe they left no witnesses, no threats. They believe they're untouchable.

That belief would be their mistake.

He walked, steps melting into silence, the red mask already in place, his presence thinner than smoke on the wind. He followed them without sound, shadowing their trail as they left the outer courtyard and disappeared down a side path into the nearby forest.

He didn't draw his sword. Not yet.

This is how I help without exposing myself, he thought. No more misunderstandings. No public appearances. No arguments. No conflicts I don't choose.

His breath settled into the calm rhythm of someone who had already made a decision.

Let Haria think they escaped. Let her report it to her sect. Let them fumble in the dark. By the time they begin moving, these men will already be dead.

The red edge of the moon rose higher in the sky behind him, washing his back in pale fire. His cloak moved like drifting smoke. The distant footsteps ahead grew slower—they had stopped to rest beneath a twisted tree.

Jinmu remained perched just above, half-kneeling on a branch, eyes locked.

Good, he thought coldly. You gave me time.

He slipped a single hand inside his inner coat and quietly drew Yeomhwa, the red sword that gleamed like a blooming ember beneath the moonlight. It didn't hum. It didn't cry. It waited.

He stood without a word. His red mask glinted as he stepped off the branch and disappeared into the dark.

Let me kill you.