Zhao Wei stood at the edge of the sparring ring, barefoot, her sleeves fluttering like pale flags in the hush of dawn. Her classmates whispered her name again, that name, the one salted with pity and spite.
“Cursed child.”
But they didn’t dare say it too loud. Not after what happened to Wu Shen last week.
He still couldn’t hold chopsticks properly.
Today, the instructor was late, and the golden bell that usually signaled discipline sat silent. Instead, a shadow stepped into the ring.
She had hair like bleeding silk, pinned high with a black lacquer comb. Her fan, painted red and carved with phoenix wings, snapped open like a guillotine.
"Who among you will give me a decent warm-up?"
Her voice was soft, but it cut through the morning like wind slicing through bamboo.
This was Mei Lin, top disciple of the Eastern Pavilion, rumored to have defeated three rogue spirit summoners before breakfast one foggy spring.
No one moved.
Then, almost lazily, Zhao Wei stepped forward.
A breeze stirred the cherry branches overhead. Petals spiraled, slow as falling ash.
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Mei Lin blinked, amused. “You? The one with no spirit?” she said, drawing a mocking arc with her fan. “I spar with warriors, not paper dolls.”
Zhao Wei said nothing. She bowed, sleeves folding like the wings of a crane.
There was something too quiet in that bow, too graceful.
Mei Lin narrowed her eyes. “Fine. Don’t cry when your bones forget how to hold you.”
The spar began.
Mei Lin moved first, striking with her fan like a whip, fast and elegant. It should have taken Zhao Wei’s breath. It should’ve cracked ribs.
But Zhao shifted.
Not stepped. Not dodged. Shifted like a shadow losing interest.
The fan missed her throat by a whisper’s width.
Gasps filled the field.
Mei Lin’s smile faltered.
She came again, faster, blending wind-step with spiritless burst. Her moves were laced with real killing intent now.
Zhao didn’t flinch.
She counted.
One. Elbow.
Two. Fan flick.
Three. Sweep.
Four. Hidden blade in the right sandal.
By strike five, Zhao had turned her body in such a perfect arc, she slid beneath Mei Lin’s guard without touching her.
And then,
With a single movement, she pressed one finger to Mei Lin’s pulse.
The spar stopped.
It didn’t need to be declared. Everyone knew. Zhao Wei had ended it.
Mei Lin froze, throat bobbing. Her fan, still raised, trembled.
Zhao leaned in, voice like a sigh beneath thunder.
“You fight beautifully,” she said.
“But your patterns are old. They were written in blood once. I used to teach them.”
Then she bowed again and walked off the ring.
No applause. Just stunned silence and the sound of Mei Lin finally lowering her fan.
Later that night, Zhao Wei sat under the ginkgo tree, her fingers brushing over a folded piece of paper she had kept hidden in her robes all day.
It was a note. Delivered by crow. No sender’s name. Just three characters burned into the parchment:
“Wei Ning lives.”
Her breath caught.
That name, her old name. The one they buried with her after she was betrayed. After she died.
She crushed the note in her palm, heart thunderous behind her ribs.
The past... was catching up.
And it had claws sharper than memory.