The night pressed low over Liu Village, the sky a deep curtain pierced by scattered starlight, the stream before the gates shimmering like a silver ribbon under the moon. Ling Yingjue stood just beyond the main hall's threshold, his coarse tunic swaying faintly in the evening breeze, the Soul-Piercing Cone a reassuring weight at his waist. He gripped its handle, his sharp features taut with resolve as the wind carried the scent of rice fields and distant smoke—a village at peace, yet fragile beneath the looming dark. Liu Shan'er stepped closer, her pale green skirt brushing the wooden floor, the short sword at her hip catching the lantern's glow. "Brother Ling, we're safe here, right?" Her voice wavered slightly, a thread of hope beneath her usual brightness.
The village gates loomed ahead, sturdy wood standing ten feet tall, the Liu clan's name carved above in bold strokes, weathered yet proud. Lanterns hung on either side, their paper yellowed, flames dimmed by the night, swaying with faint creaks in the breeze. Beyond the gates, ancient willows lined the fields, their branches drooping like curtains, whispering softly as the wind passed through. Ling Yingjue glanced at them, then back at Liu Shan'er, "For now, maybe." His tone was steady, but his mind churned: Blood Blade's pursuit, the jade's mystery—peace here felt like a thin veneer.
Liu Shan'er knocked on the gate, the sound sharp against the quiet. Moments later, it creaked open, an old servant peering out. His frame was stooped, gray tunic patched at the elbows, white hair like frost framing a lined face, his eyes sharp despite his age. A ring of copper keys jangled at his waist, a blackwood staff in hand, its tip carved with willow leaves—a weapon disguised as a walking stick. This was Fu Bo, the Liu clan's steward, once a rover of the martial world alongside Liu Changfeng, his "Willow Leaf Staff" swift and sure, though his inner force had waned with time. Seeing Liu Shan'er, he grinned, "Shan'er, you're back! The master's been sending folks to find you!" His gaze flicked to Ling Yingjue, wary, "And this is?"
Liu Shan'er beamed, "Fu Bo, this is Ling Yingjue—Brother Ling—he saved my life on the road. Let him in quick!" Her joy was infectious, her eyes gleaming with gratitude. Fu Bo clasped his hands, "Thanks, young hero. The master'll reward you well." His voice rasped with age, steady with trust, and Ling Yingjue returned the gesture, "Just did what I could—no need for thanks." Fu Bo swung the gate wide, ushering them through the courtyard paved with blue stone, where willows cast long shadows, petals drifting like fleeting snow.
Inside, the main hall glowed warm, a water-ink scroll of rivers and willows gracing the wall, a sandalwood table bearing a teapot, steam curling upward. A man rose from the head seat—Liu Changfeng, patriarch of the Liu clan, clad in a blue robe, his face lean and stern, brows like blades, eyes deep with wisdom. The Liu Wind Sword hung at his waist, its black scabbard glinting, a quiet menace in the candlelight. Known in Jiangnan's martial circles, his "Flowing Water Force" ran deep as a river, his "Willow Wind Swordplay" swift as a breeze—ten years prior, he'd felled the Five Tigers of Gusu with a single stroke, earning his name. Seeing Liu Shan'er, he stepped forward, voice firm, "Shan'er, why'd you sneak off? With Blood Blade stirring in Jiaxing, what if something happened?"
Liu Shan'er ducked her head, "Father, I was wrong—Brother Ling saved me, or I wouldn't be here." She glanced at Ling Yingjue, a flicker of softness in her eyes. Liu Changfeng turned to him, clasping his hands, "Young hero, your aid is a debt I won't forget. What school do you hail from?" Ling Yingjue shook his head, "I'm Ling Yingjue, no sect, just a wanderer with a tool for protection—helping your daughter was instinct." His gaze was frank, edged with solitude.
Liu Changfeng studied him, noting the worn tunic and the faint chill from the cone at his waist, nodding, "Stay with us then—I've prepared a modest meal to thank you." Ling Yingjue hesitated, but Liu Shan'er's hopeful look swayed him, "Alright." Liu Changfeng signaled Fu Bo, who shuffled off to arrange it, and soon a table was set—steamed perch, pale and tender with ginger threads; Jiaxing's braised duck feet, rich and glossy; stir-fried greens with bamboo shoots, simple yet crisp. Liu Changfeng raised a cup, "To your valor, young hero." Ling Yingjue drank, the wine sweet and warm, a taste of Jiangnan's gentle heart.
At the meal, Ling Yingjue asked, "Master Liu, Shan'er was attacked—something about a treasure. Know anything?" He kept the pendant hidden, watching Liu Changfeng's face. The patriarch's brows knit, "Blood Blade's been rampant, snatching oddities. A while back, I found a strange jade by the river—they've hounded us since." He paused, eyes sharpening, "You saved Shan'er—did you see it too?" Ling Yingjue nodded, drawing the Swallow Jade forth, its glow soft in the lamplight.
Liu Changfeng took it, his face tightening, "This is the 'Swallow Jade,' one of the four rare treasures. Over a decade ago, the Tang clan of Gusu was wiped out for it—three hundred souls gone in a night. Rumors say it holds a peerless martial secret, stirring the martial world into chaos. I chased its trail once, at a friend's behest, but found nothing—until now." He looked grave, "Blood Blade wants this—they won't stop."
Liu Shan'er frowned, "Father, why not just come here for it?" Liu Changfeng sighed, "They fear our name, weak as it is. Blood Blade's seven killers are fierce, backed by shadows we can't see—they're testing us." He turned to Ling Yingjue, "Young hero, this jade's trouble follows you now. Stay here—I'll uncover its truth." Ling Yingjue clasped his hands, "Thank you, Master Liu—I'll stay." He thought: Blood Blade won't relent; Liu Village might shelter them, but for how long?
After the meal, Ling Yingjue settled into a guest room, leaning by the window where the stream murmured, moonlight glinting off the Soul-Piercing Cone. He pressed its groove, the chain snapping out to coil a beam, retracting with a tug—a marvel he'd yet to master. The night stretched quiet, a fragile calm before the storm.