CHAPTER 27: CHAPTER 26: NIGHT THE MIST WITHERED

The sun sank behind the jagged ridges of Mt. Mugang, dragging its last rays of light across the Martial Pavilion like a dying ember across silk. Shadows bled down the mountainside like slow ink, and as the stars emerged one by one over the distant ridgelines, the grandeur of the Grand Open Tournament gave way to the silence of night. A hush had fallen across the Mugang Martial Pavilion, but that stillness wasn’t peace—it was the breath held before the blade fell.

Nocturnal winds coiled low through the stone courtyards and elevated wooden walkways of the mountain compound. The scent of pine, oiled weapons, and cooling stone lingered in the air. Most competitors rested within their assigned inns, beds claimed, bodies weary from the brutal pace of the tournament. And though the flicker of paper lanterns lined the distant outer courtyards of the Pavilion, they illuminated little of what skulked between the mountain trees and rooftops.

For in that silence, they began to move.

Figures cloaked emerged from the canopy above and the ridges below. They moved like breath over glass, their presence nearly imperceptible. Not a sound escaped their footsteps as they leapt from rooftop to rooftop, melted into the brush, or coiled themselves within shadows. The elite of the Night Drizzle Sect—infamous assassins had arrived.

And they answered not to their own leaders tonight.

Atop a far-reaching stone balcony beneath a sloped pavilion roof, Do Giseon, the First Blade of the Mugang Martial Pavilion, watched the mountain below. The moonlight cast sharp edges across his profile, revealing a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth—an expression of satisfaction, or perhaps calculation. A token bearing the engraved symbol of the Crimson Flow Blade Union glinted briefly in his gloved hand before vanishing once more beneath his sleeve.

His voice was quiet, but in the ears of the messengers kneeling behind him, it rang with the weight of absolute command.

"Begin," he said, and with that single word, a dozen birds scattered from the nearby trees.

The hunt had started.

Ten masked assassins dispersed into the expanse of Mt. Mugang. Their mission was clear—find and silently apprehend every member of the Yeonhwa Lotus Palace present on the mountain. They were not to cause a scene. No blood, unless absolutely necessary. Capture. Detain. Deliver.

And most importantly, the Palace Master, Danhye Yeoryeong, must be taken alive.

The Night Drizzle Sect didn’t need instruction on how to strike unseen. One after another, they executed their task with chilling precision.

A young outer disciple of Yeonhwa, stationed near a cliffside waterfall to observe the terrain, sensed movement only a breath too late. A coil of dark silk strangled his breath before his hand could reach the whistle tied around his neck. His eyes widened as he was dragged back into the brush, swallowed by shadows.

Elsewhere, near a meditation platform surrounded by tall stone lanterns, two inner palace members whispered beneath the moonlight, discussing the events of the day. A faint rustle overhead broke their conversation—both looked up.

Nothing.

Then, the lanterns shattered in unison. A gust of wind, no—it was a human silhouette—descended between them. One strike to the neck. A pressure point. A nerve tap. Silence. Their bodies dropped as if their strings had been cut.

Another pair of palace members stood watch along the western perimeter. One managed to counter the first blow—but was quickly overwhelmed. The assassins worked in pairs. One engaged. The other flanked. Every formation, every gap, every blind spot... they moved as though they had studied the terrain of Mt. Mugang for years.

And perhaps, they had.

On a higher ledge near a moonlit shrine, Damhye Yeoryeong stood in contemplative silence.

She wore her usual robe, embroidered with soft lotus petals across the sleeves. Her long hair, pinned high with needles, swayed gently in the breeze. The mist that followed her presence was faint tonight, more gentle than ghostly—but her eyes remained sharp as blades. She had not slept.

Yeoryeong had sensed something shifting. A gut pull. A whisper on the wind. Something in her blood stirred—an instinct born from years of cultivating power within the poisonous fogs of Mt. Yeonhwa.

Her fingers brushed lightly against her wrist, where a soft bell charm chimed once.

Something’s wrong.

Just as the thought reached her, a faint whistle—sharp, birdlike—carried on the air.

Then another.

Yeoryeong’s pupils narrowed.

That’s not ours.

She turned her head quickly, gazing beyond the trees.

"Minso?" she called softly. "Sudeok?"

No answer.

Her feet moved quickly across the wooden platform. As she descended the stone steps, she reached into her sleeve and pressed a thin talisman between her fingers. Her voice was low but edged with command as she activated it.

"Signal return. All members. Now."

She waited.

No reply.

Not even a flicker of ki from her scattered disciples.

Only the hiss of the wind through the trees.

Then—movement.

Ten shadows dropped around her from the trees like silent executioners. They landed without a sound, their black outfits glinting with faint violet trim, each wearing a porcelain mask shaped like dripping rain.

Yeoryeong’s gaze sharpened instantly.

"Night Drizzle," she whispered.

None of them spoke.

But their stances were clear.

And so was the message.

Yeoryeong shifted her foot back slightly, centering herself. Mist began to curl around her ankles. She did not flinch. Her sleeves fluttered as her internal ki coiled tightly, ready to lash out.

But before she could attack, the leader stepped forward—and raised a severed piece of robe. It was embroidered in pale lotus stitching. Her gaze dropped lower. Another one stepped forward and tossed a soft crimson sash.

Yeoryeong’s eyes narrowed.

That’s Minso’s. And that’s Sudeok’s sash.

She didn’t need words. The message was clear.

A third assassin raised two fingers. Then slowly made a slicing motion across their neck—and pointed to the side, where a scroll was unrolled in front of her. Written in fine brushstrokes:

Resist—and your disciples die.

For a long, bitter breath, Yeoryeong stood motionless. The mist coiling around her receded ever so slightly. Her hands, still trembling with barely withheld force, slowly lowered.

"Cowards," she whispered, voice cold.

She looked up—eyes not of a woman defeated, but of a tiger cornered.

Then, wordlessly, she allowed her hands to be bound.

And the mist faded into nothing.

Far below the shrine, another Night Drizzle assassin gave a hand signal.

All targets secured.

Mist danced gently between the pine trees as silence descended over Mt. Mugang. Nocturnal winds, once crisp and serene, now carried something bitter—tainted with blood and breathless fear. What had begun as subtle movements through shadow had escalated into full-scale abduction. And now, the center of the storm stood at the edge of a clearing.

Danhye Yeoryeong froze mid-step.

She wasn’t looking at the trees or the trails leading down the slope. Her eyes were fixed ahead—straight into the void forming before her, where the mist didn’t part naturally but seemed peeled away by will. Ten silhouettes emerged like predators from a shadow they themselves had mastered, their footfalls soundless, their presence unnatural.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

Their black robes bore the sigil of a weeping blade—a half-closed eye with a tear dripping onto a dagger. The symbol of the Night Drizzle Sect.

Yeoryeong’s expression hardened immediately. "So that coward couldn’t wait, could he?"

No response.

Her eyes darted behind her—nothing. She tried to feel the ki pulses of her guards. Not one stirred. She reached out mentally—subtle flares, flares she recognized—but then each one dimmed, extinguished like candle flames in a storm.

They were taken... every single one of them...

Her hand slid toward the sash at her waist, where no sword hung—she never carried one because she practiced palm technique. But Yeoryeong had been a Palace Master for decades. She did not need a blade to be dangerous.

"You should have brought more," she said, letting her sleeves slide down, baring her wrists. "Or at least assumed I wouldn’t fold just because you appear dramatic."

Finally, one of them stepped forward. A slender figure with a thin scar across his cheek, barely visible in the moonlight.

"You’re outnumbered ten to one."

"I’ve fought worse odds."

"And yet you hesitate."

He tossed something at her feet. Her eyes flicked down. The ornamental badge of Yeonhwa Lotus Palace—a hairpin coated in dried blood.

Yeoryeong’s ki surged instantly—dense, radiant, filling the clearing like a rising tide.

"You dare."

"Don’t move," the assassin replied. "Each of your disciples is alive—for now. But for every breath you charge, we’re instructed to end one."

She froze, jaw clenching, but not from fear. Rage coiled beneath her skin, burning with a slow fury that made her bones hum.

"What do you want?"

"We were told you’d surrender without resistance once we proved our reach."

Yeoryeong’s voice came low, thick with venom. "Do Giseon."

Again, silence.

But the smirk on the scarred assassin’s face told her everything.

She lowered her arms slowly. "If any of them dies..."

"We were instructed not to harm unless provoked. Surrender willingly, and we bind your meridians. No harm will come to your people."

"And if I refuse?"

"You may kill three of us. Maybe five. But in that time, six disciples die. We already know where they are."

The worst part was... he wasn’t bluffing. She could feel it in his confidence, in the ease of their posture. These weren’t just assassins. These were Night Drizzle Blades, the elite division—the ones who specialized in coordinated sect-wide assassination. Most of them never acted openly. For ten of them to appear here now meant Do Giseon had mobilized his best.

You prepared too much, Giseon. You’ve revealed just how much you fear us.

But now wasn’t the time for pride. She slowly raised her arms in surrender.

"As long as they live, I’ll go with you."

"You have my word."

They moved quickly. A pressure sealed on her dantian, her limbs locked in stiff paralysis, and she was surrounded. Her figure vanished with them into the shadow, like a ripple absorbed back into still waters.

Back at the Inn’s reserved wing, the night dragged on longer than usual.

Jinmu sat by the paper-covered window, arms folded, the fire at his side nearly burnt out. The warm orange glow of the brazier did little to warm the uneasy chill threading through his body.

Across the hall, Eun Haria paced.

"She should’ve been back by now," she muttered for the fifth time. "Even if something delayed her at the Pavilion, she would’ve sent a signal. A pigeon. Anything."

Jinmu didn’t reply at first.

His gaze didn’t move. His mask still clung to his face, now more out of instinct than necessity. He had removed it during meals, in the privacy of his own room—but since the day of the second match, it had been back on, and it stayed there now, as if even the night demanded caution.

"The sky shifted an hour ago," he finally said. "I felt movement on the mountain."

Haria looked over, startled. "You mean..."

"I don’t know what it was. But it wasn’t natural. Something is happening."

She crossed the room, lifting the side of her robe where her throwing needles were strapped. "Then we need to go."

Jinmu stood up slowly. "No. If it’s a trap, we walk right into it. We don’t know how many are involved."

"But if something happened to Master Yeoryeong—"

"Then we don’t throw ourselves away. We find proof. We think." His voice was low but tense. "Don’t forget what kind of place this is. The Pavilion may be neutral on paper, but everyone’s pulling strings behind the scenes."

Haria bit her lip. "She wouldn’t go down easily. She’s the Mist Lotus."

"I know."

"Then why does it feel like she’s..."

"Because it does feel like that." Jinmu’s gaze narrowed. "And that’s what bothers me most."

She lowered herself into a chair, suddenly looking ten years older. "If something has happened, then we’re sitting ducks."

"No," he said. "We’re bait. There’s a difference."

Silence.

Only the sound of the fire cracking and the wind shifting the paper windows filled the empty space between them.

"...What do we do?"

Jinmu’s voice dropped into a whisper. "We wait. If they’ve captured the Palace Master, they’ll make their move soon. And when they do..." He turned to her, eyes unreadable beneath his mask.

"We’ll burn their entire scheme to the ground."