“Blood is as thick as ash, and the bleeding moonlight follows the trail of sinners under the empire of Tianchao. What happened has happened, but the vying snake of retribution leaves none unscathed. Behind the gates of riches and fame, and the name of reverence, there—sins gather.”
Swinging music swayed the candlelight of lanterns, the drunken scent of alcohol and perfume saturated in red linen hanging across the crowded street. The light reflected off the scarlet silks in a sybaritic glow. To find oneself in such a hedonistic place, where moral laws existed in pretense, gossip and stories were preyed upon incessantly. Soft pink petals of the cherry blossom trees lined the white streets of Heaven’s Delight and trembled against the mellow winds; only in the sky did they see virtue, for the land below lost the Banes’ graces.
Women in passionate vermillion and some in innocent green fabrics littered themselves across the street, beautiful red lines along their eyes that followed passing men with pockets as deep as the graves of their victims.
The storyteller grinned, the feathers around his fan bouncing with each swift movement, like a martial artist who had stumbled. He sometimes squatted as he swung his arms, dramatized with the vigor of a conman (and was he not?). His gaudy golden jewelry, yellow in cheap luster and prideful in false riches, and fingers boasted of baubles cuffed in copper bands.
"Therefore, the purity of the great beauty was stolen, and a family blessed by the gods but cursed by the common people—the Yang family! Because of the resentment that the child was not his own and was born of great beauty and another, the lord of the house sold the child." He closed the fan, his hands like stirring pots. "But there's not a trace of it, not in the records, not in the houses. A forgotten child—"
A red-faced drunkard threw a sudden fit, “Talk properly, conman! I want my money back!” Glass shattered on the ostentatious stage which fueled the lot of onlookers in a fire of anger. “What shit are you talking about?!”
The storyteller paled immediately. “Calm, calm! This is only the beginning!”
Behind the ruthless crowd, a man in black with a hood on his head rested his fingers on his chin and observed them. The people around him glanced, and he knew what they thought. Their eyes wandered from his frightening stature—he was like a panther, and his loose robes did little to hide the build of his body.
He paid no mind to the admiration of the people, some whose gazes spoke of a deeper desire. He held a gourd bottle of cherry blossom wine. As the clamor increased around the conman, he turned his back against the stall’s table, his elbows propped to hold the weight of his leaning body.
What a ruthless bunch. He thought to himself, bringing the mouth of the bottle to his lips.
“Listen! Listen all!” the conman squeaked out and gathered the bags of money that the crowd had thrown for more gossip. It was a meager amount for the rich, but the lifeline of the poor. The conman was not about to quell the anger of the crowd with such money.
The hooded man scoffed, his long, powerful fingers gripping the gourd bottle. A crack ran from the top to the bottom of the bottle as the wine bled from the crevice.
A deep furrow between his eyebrows formed. A saturated, vivid flash of purple glowed in phoenix eyes. “This is what Wu Shen called to te—”
Swinging his arms in a frantic attempt to keep the people from nearing him, the conman looked around, and shouted, “Listen all! The child is one that is forgotten! Hey—don’t touch my bag.”
The man in black pushed himself up, his gaze solemn at the words of the conman.
In a battle of tug and push, the conman screamed out, “The name of—AH!”
A quick swing of a clay bottle slammed into the head of the man. A pool of red trickles from the skull of the conman, his body still on the floor. Like a horde of cannibalistic savages, the people around picked up the shards of glass, others hungered by the spilled money from the sack—coated in blood.
“Kill this conman!” the crowd roared.
The conman immediately grabbed the money bag; his knees curled into his chest like a tortoise in its shell. The first shard of glass dug into his skin, and the second pierced through his flesh.
"Ahh, ahh. AHH!! It hurts!" he screamed, trembling with each shard of glass burrowing deep into his soft body. Blood poured into his mouth to trickle from the side of his lips.
"Give the money to us, piece of shit!" The biggest man, burly and his long hair in a knot, shouted.
The hooded man swung his leg off his other leg and rose from his seat. "Tsk." He flung his hand and poured down the last drops of the wine down his throat. As soon as the final trickle from the mouth of the bottle fell, he threw it to the front that hit one of the five men surrounding the conman who fell forward. As he tried to catch himself, his forehead slammed into the corner of the stage where a pool of blood grew onto the wood, his limbs spread out.
"What the...!" One of the men exclaimed. The stiff body had been likened to him. Swiftly, he turned his head, but as soon as he saw the flash of a man, and a foot to his jaw, teeth knocked out from his gums. The force of the kick threw his body against the other three. They crashed into one of the poles with the lantern and red silk.
The lantern came loose. As it creaked and whimpered, it swung just a bit to the side and fell straight onto the head of the man, splitting his skull open. He fell to the ground, convulsing, eyes still wide.
The street went quiet, before a prostitute let out a blood-curdling scream, launching a barrage of people to run off the streets, stall owners to hide behind their boxes.
“Get out of the way!”
“Ahhh! Murder!”
“Ah! Stop, stop! It hurts!”
The crowd threw one another to the ground, eager in their escape that they had run through people who fell along the way. They run through the fallen people, stepping on their faces, as blood pours out from each orifice. Heads shatter, teeth scattered across the cold floor. Bricked grounds swallow the blood from the people and becomes the sanguis that snakes across the street,
“What the fuck! Cough!” The burly man pushes the pile of bodies off of his legs, shakily standing up, eyes bloodshot.
The hooded figure turned his gaze to the burly thug, eyes glowering under his disguise. Despite his lax posture, his hands and attention remained steadfast.
The conman looked up from his shell, vision blurry. “You…what in Bane’s name are you…?”
The hooded man peered at his feet, where the conman was as pitiful as an injured dog. He turned his gaze back, speaking softly, “Names are not given so freely.”
“Fuck off! I’ll kill both of you! BOTH OF YOU!”
He casted a lazy gaze at the man, a flash of steel, and a dagger pulled out from under the burly man's shirt, rusted and covered in black liquid.
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“DIE!” He screamed in a rush towards the black figure with the knife near his belly, held in both his clumsy hands.
As soon as he thrusted, the black figure took a sidestep, eyes intently on the arm of the other. The knife passed through from where he stood and immediately the black figure grabbed the other's arm, twisting it forward, and the knife thrusted itself deep into the man's chest. The sound of breaking ribs, and the wheeze as he spat a blot of blood, died out as crimson coats the large hand wrapped in black fabric.
The black figure stretched out his other hand, holding the dying man in place.
“You…” The burly man raised his head, breath shallow and eyes weak. If he were to die, he wanted to see who it was.
His face dropped, face as white as snow.
Fear.
Fear dug into his bones,
He sighed a strangulated breath. “The…rebel…pri…”
The hooded man furrowed his brows and released his shoulder, and his body dropped to the ground, blood splattering onto his shoes.
His nose twisted, eyes gleaming in a complicated emotion. “Vile…"
Shaking off the blood from his hand, he glanced at the conman, whose body was crumbled into a fetal position.
This man is whom I must speak to? He pursed his lips at the sight, thinking, his back is like that of a porcupine punctured by its own quills. And a foal is less pitiful than what...this may be.
He approached the conman, staring down at the shivering body, barely holding itself together. The shirt stuck to the conman's back, drenching in red, no longer the cheap yellow.
“You”—he spoke with a voice as soft as ocean tides, yet as cold as the waters—“are you able to stand?”
“Please spare me!” He whimpered, hardly able to yelp those pleading words. "I have a son! This lowly one cannot die!"
He stared at the weakening body, eyes callous, yet the undertone of pity was there.
“You will not die. But," he spoke louder, "what you said of the Yang Residence: is it true?"
The conman remained on the ground like a rabbit to a wolf and his yellow robes completely drenched in blood, hands unable to push himself up, but responded, "It's true! There is an illegitimate child of the Lord Yang."
His face lighted in curiosity, and he prodded further, "Then what is their name?"
The conman whimpered and said in a soft voice, "Yang Zihun."
The hooded man gripped his pants, fingers restless as he watched the breath of the conman become more shallow; his body slumping, he plopped to his side.
But he couldn't get the words that he heard out of his head. "The military leader...Xiaowei Mao?"
He stared at the man by his feet. He finally understood what Wu shen meant. He had to save this man—he was too useful to die.
But how would he pick him up?
He gulped. What matters is there? The hooded man thought to himself, taking a careful surveillance of the area around him.
The street was empty, save for a few wandering eyes and shopkeepers behind their stalls. Although barren, hundreds of gazes from behind windows and buildings follow his movements.
He knew, so he held himself back. With a sigh, he shook his head. It’s fine. They do not know my identity.
Taking a step forward, he bent his knees halfway.
“What’s this? Is this venerated one bending knees for slaves?”
That cheerful voice…the thoughts of the hooded one turned blank, and a flash of anger bellowed in his chest, rushing to release.
His hands curled into a ball, eyes shooting daggers at the cheeky fox-like face. There was no need for words to be exchanged between the others in the situation. Those eyes, filled with mockery, were as clear as a blue sky, and the hooded man felt his ears ringing in fury.
He turned his back and began to walk away. “Pick up this man and treat him.”
The other man, flamboyant in his wrist movement, chuckled. “Why don’t you do it”— he looked around, before a playful smile appeared— “prince.”
The hooded man stopped in his step. "If you are aware of your position, shut your mouth, Wu Shen." With that, his robes fluttered behind, leaving the conman and the flamboyant instigator.
Wu Shen glared at the retreating figure. "I came to help him, and he can't even control his temper..." With that, he looked down at the slumped conman, grimacing at the sight.
"He wants me to dirty my clothes..." he let out a sigh, before taking the arms of the man on the ground and putting them over his shoulders. Then, a warm liquid seeped into his clothes.
Damn prince." He grumbled under his breath, "Is he taking revenge because I pranked him?"
Without wasting another second, he dashed forward, uncaring of the feet that dragged behind.
In the front, hidden behind alleyways of a slum area, the man took off his hood. Just as he turned around, facing a window of a dilapidated house, his gaze darkened. "So the illegitimate child of General Yang...is a Xiaowei of Zhongguog."
But he had no way to prove it, and there was no evidence of the conman's words. Still, he was inclined to believe it, considering the various things he heard of the young military leader of the continent nation.
The illegitimate child of the consort Lisha of Yang residence—Yang Zihun.
"Ji Qiangxin, why in Bane's name did you leave me behind!?" Wu Shen shouted in a whisper, clearly stricken in anger,
The hooded man, Ji Qiangxin, rebel prince of Tianchao, glared back at Wu Shen. "Fool."
“First Princess Shenglian, is there something that warrants such sullen expression?”
A gentle smile crossed the elegant face, fox monolid eyes slightly squinted. Her dark brown long hair was in a soft braid, trailing down across her shoulder to her thin waist and nimble arms. Such poise posture, further accentuated by her riveting manners and grace. Fu Xiuying is the symbol of elegance and eloquence.
Xiuying glanced down at the board scattered with black and white stones, each placed in account of position and advantage. Her gaze shifted back up.
Under the candlelight in a quaint room, her skin glowed an ethereal white, like shards of crystal under the fire, like the ocean as the sun sets. Hair as dark as night cascaded down her lithe figure, nearly to the wooden floor. Eyelashes embellished by their slight curves, like willows of the weeping tree. Her lychee eyes round and innocently pure, yet a steely and hesitant spirit bellowed beneath her appearance.
Shenglian stretched her hand forth, a white stone between two fingers. “Lady Xiuying, what compelled you to serve elder brother?”
A slight smile teased her lips. Xiuying took a silent breath, the smile replaced by a neutral expression. “There is not much to what a simple maid of the palace needs, First Princess. It is plain faith and hope in the rightful heir.”
“Faith in brother, I see.” Shenglian snapped her fingers down on the board. “How bizarre. Brother…is foolish, uncouth, and stupid.”
Xiuying’s eyes widened for a moment before her fingers reached into the bowl for a black stone. “What makes the princess think in such ways?”
“Simple,” Shenglian said with a downcast expression. “Brother finds it too simple in violence.”
“Hm,” Xiuying sounded, a curious narrowing of her eyes towards Shenglian. “Princess is perhaps too harsh in thinking.”
After all, Xiuying mused. She looked down to the floor. Covered in pools of red liquid, and the metallic scent slithering in the room, she almost had to sigh in defeat. The body she observed had already gone cold, but the heart of their killer had gone cold far before they had.
Xiuying glanced at Shenglian. Such exquisite and mellow beauty, endowed by the most ethereal appearance that one can pray to the Banes for, Shenglian simply sat as a person would within a pavilion—calm and collected.
“Princess, it is quite late now. I shall instruct the soldiers to clean the mess so that princess may find rest tonight.”
Shenglian peered at Xiuying. “That is not a half bad thought. I already feel a bit annoyed tonight…having had to deal with petty thieves.”
Xiuying smiled. “Please take rest, Your Highness.”
She couldn't help but think, is the princess benevolent or far too detached from reality? What would be more frightening. She sighed, standing up.
Following behind the princess who held the warm robe around her thin shoulder, like a weak woman who needed protection, Xiuying could only count her blessings that she has yet to anger Shenglian.
His strokes were like a tiger crouching in a spring, like the waves of Lingxi river, flowing from one side to the other, black lines along his fingers. From the way he carried himself and observed, one might have thought him to be an untouchable piece of jade; yet, despite the solemn expression on his face, his distinctly soft brown almond-shaped eyes were inviting. His soft features: nose, lips and eyebrows gave him a saintly, even jewel-like appearance. Although he was handsome, the most attractive thing was the smile in his eyes.
As his skillful hands waved from side to side, he finally lifted the curved paintbrush and placed it gently on a stand next to the long sheet of paper spread out on the other side of the table.
"Xuezhe, who are you painting?" a curious voice shouted. A boy less than ten summers old watched carefully.
The man immediately coughed and positioned himself between the child and painting. With a gentle smile, he chided. “You saw wrong, little one. It is an illustration of antiquities.”
"Ehh?" the child shouted in surprise, his mouth wide open, and his head tilted to one side. He immediately pouted. "Huh? This is obviously a person! What do you mean... antique?"
The scholar immediately straightened his back and patted the angry child on the head. "Don't think too much, little one. Antiquities can be represented in many ways, such as..."
He looked out the window, with a bright—radiant, like the sun—smile on his face. "Those three moons, for example. Although Tianchao does not believe in the souls and powers of gods, they are fully aware of the Banes, even those named after the moons are a tale older than the time humans can comprehend. Antiquities and philosophies are everywhere."
"Ugh..." the kid groaned, clearly dissatisfied with his thoughtfulness.
"Haha, what's wrong, little one?" the scholar asked.
Little Pei frowned and looked away. "Xuezhe...do you like that person?"
The scholar froze for a moment, a deer to the hunter expression on his face, and then a smile appeared. "I'm reminiscing."
"I see..." The child yawned widely. He didn't understand what the adults were usually talking about, but he certainly didn't understand academics at all. Talking to him for even a minute makes his head hurt. But Little Pei liked this. The more he looked at the scholar's gentle demeanor, the more he enjoyed his company, even though his father scolded him many times for talking to strangers.
Suddenly, a hint of displeasure appeared on Little Pei's face. "Brother xuezhe, are you a stranger?"
"Hmm..." The scholar held his chin. "What is a stranger? Is a person with a known name but no other a stranger, or is a person with an unknown name but with whom one shares many memories a stranger?"
"Uh..." The child wrinkled his nose in disgust. "I don't know what you mean. You talk so stupidly that you sound smart."
The scholar almost felt like he was going to vomit blood. "Little one, your words are really harsh."
Even as he pretended to be hurt, the smile on his face grew brighter and his eyes turned to a small box in the corner of the table that Little Pei noticed. His eyelashes lowered slightly and he let out a sigh.
"Perhaps both are strangers."