The silence pressed in, thick and unnatural.
Xiyue's grip on his sword didn't ease, his gaze scanning the swirling white beyond them.
Ruo Han shifted, listening—really listening—past the wind's howl.
There.
A faint crunch of snow, not close, but not far enough to ignore.
Then a shadow emerged—tall, steady, untouched by the chaos of the fight.
The same figure who had spoken outside the inn now stood on a rise, the snowstorm curling strangely around him, as if the wind itself dared not touch his cloak.
His mask glinted faintly in the pale moonlight—no crude leather here, but carved steel, etched with curling patterns like frozen rivers.
The eyes behind it were unreadable.
"You kill clean," the masked man said, his voice carrying clearly despite the gale.
"But I wonder—" his gaze lingered on Ruo Han, "—can you protect what you value, when the blade aimed at him doesn't come from the front?"
Xiyue's stance shifted almost imperceptibly, sliding half a step in front of Ruo Han.
"Try me."
The man didn't move.
Didn't even seem to breathe.
Then—without warning—he turned his back on them, walking away into the storm.
"Why is he leaving?" Ruo Han whispered, tension still coiled in his body.
"He's not," Xiyue said grimly, eyes narrowing at the retreating figure. "He's waiting."
The snow swallowed the stranger whole, but the weight of his presence remained, like a promise—or a threat—woven into the wind.
Far above, a hawk's cry split the sky, sharp and cold.
Xiyue's eyes flicked upward, catching the glint of something metallic tied to the bird's leg before it vanished into the clouds.
A message had just been sent.