THE TREES WERE BARE, their thin, leafless branches stretching overhead like cracks across the pale-blue sky, resembling intricate fissures on blue-and-white porcelain. The snow recently cleared from the mountain gate's stone steps was piled to either side in neat mounds that looked like tiny hills. In the main hall, Tang Shiqi sat cross-legged on a meditation mat, rubbing his bright-red, frostbitten hands. Looking out through the doorway, he saw the rambling, desolate mountains blanketed in white. In the distance, an assassin's hut poked out of the snow, its roof a dull yellowish brown. Long stone steps cascaded downward from the hut before vanishing into the thick, misty falling snow below.22
A handful of assassins trickled into the hall one by one. They were bundled in cloaks, their faces covered. Each retrieved a pill from a black-lacquered alms bowl atop the altar before huddling near the charcoal stove for warmth. Tang Shiqi overheard one mutter a curse under his breath. "When will they finally fix this place? What a dump!" Tang Shiqi raised his gaze to the ceiling, where a gaping hole let wind and snow swirl in to land on the assassins' dark heads.
Qiye Garden was a strange place. From the moment Tang Shiqi arrived, he'd felt a bone-deep chill that made him shiver uncontrollably. The Buddha statues here were all painted black; their once-compassionate, once-serene faces had taken on an inexplicable ferocity under the lacquer. Most of the statues were ancient, their paint peeling. Their aged, mottled faces seemed to sag slightly, their half-closed eyes casting indifferent gazes over the assassins gathered below. Tang Shiqi again felt a cold chill slice down his neck, as though a blade had just grazed him.
The abbot was seated beneath the Buddha of Light. He flipped open an old scripture and began to chant. Most of the assassins slouched, some leaning against pillars and nodding off. The abbot's flat, monotonous voice was like a lifeless melody. On the far side of the hall, snoring began—first a long snore, then a series of shorter ones, rhythmic and varied like an erhu. Paired with the abbot's droning chant, it really was almost musical.
Tang Shiqi felt an irrepressible urge to laugh. Bored, he glanced around the hall and noticed Chiyan sitting beneath the Manjushri Bodhisattva statue. He considered going over to chat, but he remembered that—since he was here to impersonate Xiahou Lian—he couldn't risk giving himself away. With some effort, he restrained himself.
Xiahou Lian had now set off for the Tian Shan mountains. After burying Qiu Ye, Shu Qing had headed west, while Xiahou Lian had sought out Tang Shiqi, still carrying the cicada-wing blades. He'd shown Tang Shiqi the blades' rippling cloud patterns, which perfectly matched notes in Tang Lan's journals. Xiahou Lian had handed Tang Shiqi a mask that resembled human flesh and taught him to mimic voices so that Tang Shiqi could impersonate him in the Garden while Xiahou Lian headed to the mountains. The pill Xiahou Lian carried, originally intended for his mother, had now been repurposed. It would extend his life another year, buying him time to track down the meteoric iron.
While impersonating Xiahou Lian, Tang Shiqi had free rein over his savings. Xiahou Lian was extraordinarily wealthy, having earned substantial sums through years of successful assassinations. Furthermore, he had no vices—he didn't gamble, frequent brothels, or indulge in theatergoing. At worst, he splurged on an occasional jug of wine and let himself collect a few blades, which yielded considerable savings.
That delighted Tang Shiqi. Disguised as Xiahou Lian, he indulged in a life of luxury. He spent hundreds of silver taels sponsoring a star in Jiangling, showering her with red silk, gold hairpins, and jade combs every time she appeared on stage. He was the "first patron" of two young courtesans in Hangzhou and spent two days at Yanchun House. The Eastern Depot quickly caught his scent, though, so he bribed the eunuchs with dozens of taels and made a hasty escape, leaving behind his gold sash clasp and jade-ornamented fan tassel. It was said that one young woman had kept her chastity for him to the present day. When a courtesan lost her virginity along Qinhuai River, it was often to the sight of "Xiahou Lian" throwing gold leaves from a boat. When a Yangzhou Companion wed, she received a convoy filled with a lavish dowry, supposedly sent by Xiahou Lian.
Thus, in addition to his infamy as the Wuminggui, Xiahou Lian gained another nickname: the Libertine of Wu Gate. Courtesans across the land were proud to have him visit their chambers. Meanwhile, Eastern Depot officers combed through brothels and singing halls as every courtesan claimed that Xiahou Lian was in her room. Yet despite the depot's relentless efforts, they never so much as glimpsed Xiahou Lian's shadow, and Tang Shiqi would watch from the sidelines, chuckling in amusement.
But Tang Shiqi was troubled as well. Xiahou Lian had enemies everywhere, the Eastern Depot the most formidable of all. It wasn't clear why they nursed a grudge against Xiahou Lian, but his wanted posters were plastered all over every street, and the Eastern Depot agents patrolled daily, hands on their sabers as they scrutinized the passersby. Xiahou Lian was safely in the Tian Shan mountains, a remote, desolate corner untouched by Eastern Depot agents, but Tang Shiqi had to evade them constantly while simultaneously maintaining his cover in Qiye Garden. It left him utterly exhausted.
More often than not, just as he was about to embrace a girl, Depot officers stormed in. He had to plant a fleeting kiss on her lips, leap out the window under her longing gaze, and escape, promising to return someday.
In the hall, the pattern of the assassin's snores changed—now three long snores were followed by one short. The abbot paused mid-chant, glancing faintly in the direction of the noise. Someone nudged the sleeping assassin with an elbow until he groggily opened his eyes. The abbot closed the scripture in his hands and stood. Tang Shiqi's gaze followed his movements to the western wall, where thirty or more neatly arranged wooden plaques hung, each bearing the name not of a person but a blade.
The topmost plaques belonged to the Eight Legions of Qiye Garden; only those plaques displayed the assassins' titles, inscribed in ink. The space beneath the Garuda plaque was empty. The Hengbo plaque, Tang Shiqi noticed, hung in an unremarkable spot in the very bottom row.
The abbot walked to the wall, removed several plaques, then pulled several new ones from his sleeve to replace them. Finally, he moved the Hengbo plaque, hanging it below the one that read Garuda.
"Xiahou Lian," the abbot said.
Tang Shiqi jolted. All the assassins turned to look at him—dozens of cold, unfamiliar gazes. Tang Shiqi suddenly felt like a living man trespassing in a crowd of ghosts. He forced himself to respond, his voice steady despite the dread prickling his skin.
"Here!"
The abbot approached him and placed his hand atop Tang Shiqi's head. "From this moment on, you are the twenty-ninth Garuda."
Tang Shiqi lowered his head, his heart pounding like a drum. It felt as though five iron fingers clamped his skull—icy, stiff, devoid of warmth. Perhaps it was the bitter cold or the dilapidation of the temple, but the frigid air seemed to seep chillingly into his bones. Resting on Tang Shiqi's head, the abbot's frail, skeletal hand gave off the same eerie sensation a corpse's would have.
What was Tang Shiqi supposed to do now? Cry tears of gratitude? Bow and offer thanks? He silently cursed Xiahou Lian for failing to prepare him for such an event—when an assassin received such a title, what was the protocol?
Before Tang Shiqi could untangle his thoughts, the abbot removed his hand. Gesturing, he called two assassins to move a charcoal brazier to the center of the hall. The abbot sat cross-legged in front of the brazier and began placing the plaques he'd removed into the flames, one by one.
"We assassins have no names, no titles, no masters, no fathers, no homes, and no nations. We wield the Bodhi Saber, the Blade of Life and Death, to kill the righteous, sinful, mundane, noble, and powerful alike. Darkness is our brother, the eternal night our kin. We are the shadows beneath the light, the ghosts in the night, the moths drawn toward flames. We walk the path of sin, ending grudges and taking revenge. By entering this gate of liberation, we earn an immortal existence. May your departed spirits ascend to the pure land of paradise and join us in eternity."
As the plaques in the brazier blackened and burned, the assassins quietly echoed the abbot's words: "Ascend to paradise. Join us in eternity."
The solemn chant reverberated like heavy bells in Tang Shiqi's ears, leaving him dazed and disoriented. Lost in a haze, he followed the crowd out of the hall. Assassins filed past him through the swirling shadows, their faces expressionless, gazes fixed straight ahead.
As Tang Shiqi recalled the abbot's words earlier, he felt his heart sink as though it was encased in ice. Unable to resist, he glanced back and saw Chiyan standing beneath the eaves of the walkway, watching him silently. Chiyan's gaze was calm and distant like falling winter snow. Snapping out of his daze, Tang Shiqi fled hastily for fear that his deception would be exposed.
Xiahou Lian's house was so rundown that it resembled an ancient ruin abandoned for centuries. When Tang Shiqi moved in, he'd cursed Xiahou Lian's negligence, but almost immediately, he'd realized the dilapidation suited him; after all, a ghost who'd crawled out of hell belonged in a forbidding hovel. Fortunately, Xiahou Lian had told Tang Shiqi where to find a few jars of pear-blossom wine he'd buried behind the house. With some huffing and puffing, Tang Shiqi dug them out and drank himself into a stupor.
Later, Uncle Duan passed by and spotted Tang Shiqi sprawled in the snow. "Xiao-Lian, what're you doing lying there?" he called out in concern, pushing open the bamboo fence. "It's freezing! Get inside before you catch a cold!"
Tang Shiqi squinted at the burly man's broad face. "Who're you, pancake-face? Get lost!" he slurred. "You're ruining my drinking!"
"You brat!" Uncle Duan barked, red with anger. Shaking his head at Tang Shiqi's drunken state, he added, "I've heard all about your antics. Here in the Garden, we always keep a low profile—but everywhere else, you swagger around! Keep it up and you'll invite disaster. What's wrong with you? Is there no proper work you can do now that you've avenged your mother?"
"Oh, I do important work, all right," Tang Shiqi replied cheerfully. "Down by Qinhuai River, and in all the Hualiu Alley brothels, the ladies are lined up waiting for me!"
"You! You—!" His face flushed, Uncle Duan stormed off in fury.
After lounging in the snow a while longer, Tang Shiqi felt the chill seeping into his bones. He rolled over and crawled back indoors.
That night, the moon hung bright and cold behind the mountains, casting pale light over the quiet, desolate sky. Darkness shrouded the undulating peaks, and lamps glowed faintly from the scattered assassins' huts like solitary fireflies about to be swallowed by the night. In the meditation room, the abbot lit an old oil lamp. At the edge of the lamp tray, its single flame trembled, casting flickering shadows that danced across the walls.
Uncle Duan made his way down the flower path; it was barren now, and the snow weighed down only on tangled, dried branches that scraped his ankles painfully as he walked. Entering the meditation room, he sat down by the lamp to inspect his feet, grumbling, "Shixin, when are you going to fix up this decrepit old temple?"
Shixin sighed. "Next year," he replied. "Let's wait until next year."
"You said that last year too."
"There's no money, Duan Jiu." Shixin adjusted the lamp wick.
Duan Jiu pursed his lips, but he knew exactly where the Garden's bounty money had gone, so he said no more. Chiyan leaned against the lattice window, staring blankly at the snowflakes drifting outside.
"I don't think that brat Xiahou Lian is going to make it," Uncle Duan said.
Shixin paused as he trimmed the lamp's wick.
"Have you heard about his antics?" Uncle Duan sighed. "Ever since he avenged his mother, he's been slacking off. He spends his days chasing women; he has no sense of responsibility. How could he possibly take over your position? The blade you forged has gone dull, Shixin."
"I've heard," Shixin said, his brow furrowed. "He used to avoid women entirely. Even when serving Yuenü, and when he dealt with Liushao-er recently, he showed no interest."
"I've heard he's hanging around some guy named Tang Shiqi—a real scoundrel. The bastard must've led Xiahou Lian astray."
"Perhaps we should kill Tang Shiqi," Shixin suggested, tucking in his sleeves as he sat on the meditation mat. Turning to Chiyan, he asked, "What do you think, Chiyan?"
Chiyan withdrew his gaze from the snow and placed his hands neatly on his knees. He raised his eyes, his faintly melancholic gaze fixed on the flickering lamp flame. "Xiahou Lian has strayed onto a dark path. His mind is corrupt and beyond redemption."
"In that case, Chiyan, you're the only one who can take on the northern frontier," Shixin said. "My plan isn't foolproof. Our predecessors perished in the ice and snow, and after that the people there became cautious—only the Garden abbot can meet them. But they'll never accept your heartlessness, Chiyan."
Chiyan lowered his head, catching a snowflake as it drifted through a tear in the window screen. It melted instantly in his palm. "There will be a way," he said. "You once said that certain things must be faced even if they lead to a mountain of blades or an ocean of fire."
"You're right," said Shixin. "Who else remembers what happened twenty-one years ago? I alone can recall how they were beheaded, their blood mingling with the snow. I alone remember their faces, their voices, who they were. So I alone can avenge them. Go, child. I'll devise a plan to ensure that you reach the northern frontier safely and meet those people. Whatever happens next is up to you."
***
TANG SHIQI WAS FEVERISH, his head pounding. As he climbed from his bed to fetch water, the sound of crunching footsteps outside caught his attention. Someone entered, carrying wind and snow in with them. As faint light filtered through the window screen, illuminating the figure, Tang Shiqi squinted. He managed to recognize the figure's outline—it was Chiyan.
Chiyan sat on the bed and handed Tang Shiqi a letter. "This is my will. Please deliver it to Xiahou Lian."
Tang Shiqi's head throbbed as he placed the letter on the bedside table. "What nonsense are you spouting now? I am Xiahou Lian!"
"No, you're not—I can tell," Chiyan said. "I'm going to the northern frontier. I may not return. Uncle Duan said assassins usually leave behind wills to settle their affairs and distribute their belongings. I don't have much to leave behind, though—just some words for Xiahou Lian."
To Tang Shiqi, Chiyan's words had sounded muffled, as though they came from a distance. "Then why not just tell him directly? What's the point of writing a letter…?" Tang Shiqi mumbled, his head spinning.
Chiyan remained silent, and although the sadness in his eyes was unmistakable, Tang Shiqi couldn't see it in the darkness.
After a moment, Chiyan replied, "I used to dislike going down the mountain. The lights, the flowers, the noisy people below—I thought they had nothing to do with me. I believed I was like the wind, leaving no trace wherever I went, disappearing in an instant. But then Xiahou Lian came along, and I realized that there was someone else in this world who looked exactly like me. We are brothers, bound by blood. He is my connection to the world." He glanced at Tang Shiqi. "Does that make sense? I've spent so much time alone that I don't know how to talk to others."
Tang Shiqi nodded vaguely.
"I've heard about the Bridge of Helplessness,"23 Chiyan continued. "If you cross it without drinking Meng Po's soup,24 you won't forget your past life. I'll try not to drink it. Could you ask Xiahou Lian for me whether he's willing to keep being my brother in the next life, if I find him?"
Tang Shiqi sat up abruptly. "All right, all right, I get it! My head's spinning, and I feel like I'm going to throw up. Can you hurry up and go?"
Startled, Chiyan stood. He hesitated for a moment before responding, "Sorry. I'll leave now."
Tang Shiqi lay back down as Chiyan quietly left the room.
The next day, Tang Shiqi woke with a lingering headache. He opened the window to see snow falling heavily, blanketing the mountains in endless white. Turning back to the empty interior, he vaguely remembered Chiyan's visit the night before, but it seemed like a dream—why would Chiyan have been there in the middle of the night? Tang Shiqi knocked on his own head, blaming his grogginess, and failed to notice the corner of a letter peeking from beneath his pillow.
Winter passed, and Tang Shiqi finally left the Garden to return to the comforts of the world below. When he arrived at Yanchun House, he was overwhelmed with emotion; it felt like a homecoming. The familiar scent of heavy perfume filled the air, sweet to the point of being cloying. Straight rows of red octagonal lanterns hung under the eaves. Gauzy silk robes fluttered as women moved, their faces glowing faintly red under the lantern light. The courtyard was alive with noise—the women's shrill giggles, the splash of a drunken guest stumbling into the pond and the subsequent chorus of laughter.
"That damned eunuch Wei De and his godson Shen Jue—they're the worst!" someone at a nearby table exclaimed.
Tang Shiqi was holding a slender woman around the waist. They fed each other wine as he eavesdropped on the nearby table's chatter.
"Master Xiahou, why did you wait so long to visit?" the woman murmured softly, leaning into his arms with a hint of resentment.
"Ah—I'm so sorry, my lovely sweetheart. I got caught up in some trouble and couldn't get away," Tang Shiqi replied with a laugh.
The conversation at the other table grew more animated.
"Yes—the worst!" someone agreed. "Did you know about that case ten years back when the entire Xie family got wiped out?"
"Who doesn't?" another voice replied. "Lord Xie Bingfeng was a pillar of integrity and a cornerstone of the court! But he was a thorn in Wei De's side, so the old scoundrel hired assassins to kill the whole household. Despite his age, poor old Master Dai spent years running around to gather evidence before finally proving that Wei De was the mastermind!"
"How long are you staying this time, Master Xiahou?" the woman asked, poking Tang Shiqi's chest playfully.
"No idea. Depends when the Eastern Depot shows up!" Tang Shiqi laughed heartily.
The men at the other table continued their indignant discussion. "It's a shame the emperor is so foolish. He protects Wei De no matter what! Master Dai spent days submitting grievances and exposing Wei De's crimes, but the emperor just ignored him!"
"I heard that Wei De even sent Shen Jue to attack Master Dai! Luckily, some righteous hero intervened, and Dai-xiansheng escaped unharmed!"
"Don't worry. Dai-xiansheng has made it clear that if anything happens to him, it's Wei De's doing! Wei De doesn't dare make a move now. He even sent guards to protect Master Dai. I guess he's afraid the blame will fall on him if the elderly man falls ill and dies."
"You two gentlemen seem to be enjoying yourselves," a cold voice interrupted. A dark-faced man approached the table and glared at the men icily.
The two men, clearly drunk, stood and shoved him. "Hey, what's your problem? What do you want?"
"Are you discussing state affairs? Perhaps you'd like to continue this conversation at the Eastern Depot," the dark-faced man said. He gestured, and suddenly several black-robed Eastern Depot officers stepped from the shadows.
The two men turned pale, sobering instantly. They fell to their knees and begged for mercy. Tang Shiqi, watching the commotion, began to back away slowly, inching toward the door.
The dark-faced man turned, his eyes landing on Tang Shiqi. Then his expression hardened. "Xiahou Lian!" he shouted. "Seize him!"
Tang Shiqi groaned inwardly, cursing himself for leaving the human mask on. He bolted down the street. Spotting someone leading a horse, he grabbed the reins, mounted, and galloped toward Yuelun Peak. The Eastern Depot agents pursued him relentlessly; their billowing robes made them look like a flock of predatory black hawks.
Pedestrians scattered in panic as the chase tore through the streets. The wind cut like knives against Tang Shiqi's ears, and the thunder of hooves echoed behind him. He fired his Jinghong crossbow at his pursuers and took down several officers, but more Eastern Depot agents quickly took their places, and Tang Shiqi cursed under his breath.
The road ahead ended abruptly in a cliff, and Tang Shiqi reined in his horse. The dark-faced officer smirked, seeing that there was no escape. But before he could celebrate, Tang Shiqi dismounted and sprinted toward the cliff edge as if preparing to leap.
The officer gave chase, but Tang Shiqi was too fast. He dove into the void like a bird, the wind whipping through his clothes. Everyone watched in stunned silence, expecting him to plummet to his death. Instead, two three-foot iron frames covered in black oilcloth unfolded from his back; they looked like bat wings. Tang Shiqi caught the wind and glided toward the Qiantang River below as onlookers cheered from the Liuhe Pagoda.
"Bring me a bow!" the dark-faced officer roared.
"Sir, the depot chief ordered him captured alive and unharmed!" another officer protested.
"Better dead than escaped!" the man snapped, drawing the bow himself. He aimed at the shrinking figure of Tang Shiqi, taut bowstring curving like the edge of a full moon. Taking a deep breath, the officer released the arrow; it flew with a sonorous whistle toward its target.
"Did it hit?" an officer asked, shielding his eyes to look.
The shadow in the sky shuddered but didn't fall. It glided into the dense forest on the opposite bank.
Tang Shiqi had been struck in the shoulder. If the arrow had hit slightly lower, it would've destroyed the mechanical wings and pierced his heart. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Tang Shiqi stumbled back to Xiahou Lian's secret lair and shut himself in.
The Garden sent word later that someone had left Jingtie in the capital's bell tower. Tang Shiqi, who had no idea what Jingtie was, simply shrugged that off, forgetting all about it.
As spring became summer, the withered ivy came back to life, its vibrant green tendrils covering the hut. The grape trellis grew heavy with twisting vines, and the water barrel brimmed with white lotus blossoms, their small, round leaves floating like ripples spreading across the water. Tang Shiqi lounged on a chaise, basking in the sun. So much had happened recently. Shu Qing had defected to the Western Regions, and the new Kinnara was leading a team of undercover agents to hunt him down. Chiyan had gone missing; he'd reportedly been caught in a snowstorm on some northern mountain, and his fate was unknown.
The Eastern Depot still hunted Xiahou Lian, though the dark-faced officer who'd shot at Tang Shiqi hadn't been seen again. In their relentless pursuit, the depot dismantled several Garden brothels and relay stations, sending captured assassins and undercover agents to the capital. Fear gripped everyone. With no business to conduct, people stayed home, too afraid to venture out. The crackdown spread across the underworld. Officers routinely raided gambling dens, taverns, and brothels, interrogating patrons and checking household registrations, then throwing those without proper documentation into prison. Many establishments failed to survive the scrutiny and shut down.
As the weather cooled, the lotus flowers in the barrel withered, leaving behind only a few yellowed stems. One day, a light rain fell, the misty drizzle pattering crisply on the ground like fine needles. Tang Shiqi sat on the doorstep, resting his head in his hands. Suddenly, a figure emerged through the rain—a man in a bamboo hat and a straw raincoat, beneath which the dark hilt of his blade was faintly visible.
Tang Shiqi stood and called out, "Boss!"
Stepping under the wide eaves, Xiahou Lian removed his hat and raincoat. He shook his damp black hair and brushed rainwater from his clothes. "Get me some hot soup."
"On it!" Tang Shiqi chirped. Barely containing his excitement, he brought Xiahou Lian a bowl of soup. "So did you get the meteoric iron?"
Xiahou Lian entered the house, peeling off his clothes to reveal firm bronzed muscles crisscrossed with scars. Layers of silver thread wrapped his body, as fine and intricate as the silk of a cocoon. Unwinding the threads, Xiahou Lian placed them on the square table. Donning a pair of silver gloves, he lifted one of the threads. The thin strand gleamed faintly, catching the light streaming through the doorway as Xiahou Lian stretched it taut. A fly buzzed into the room, oblivious to the thread stretched between Xiahou Lian's fingers. As it flew past, the thread sliced it cleanly in two, the halves dropping onto the table.
Tang Shiqi stared, dumbfounded.
"Give me a few days to recover," Xiahou Lian said. "Then I'll head back to the Garden to kill Shixin."