Three Steps C1

Chapter 1 – The Mistakenly Intruding Assassin

In the twelfth year of Yongning, at Jiangzhou’s Po’gang Crossing.

“Mother, aren’t you cold? Let’s not catch fish anymore, please…”

In the pitch-dark river channel, a small child, standing precariously on tiptoe atop a jagged reef, raised her head toward her mother, who was fishing amidst the river’s currents. The child’s teeth were chattering.

The woman, soaked waist-deep in the freezing waters, forced a faint smile and turned her face away. “Mother is not cold.”

It was the midnight hour, the sky black and the waters icy. A crowd of villagers struggled within the surging river, forced to catch fish because a noble aboard a pleasure-barge had suddenly taken a craving for fresh perch. Servants had kicked down doors in the middle of the night to rouse these poor fisherfolk from their slumber.

All around was suffocating darkness. In the distance, the brightly-lit pleasure-barge towered above. Several nobles stood at the bow, gazing down with condescension, leisurely raising their golden goblets, watching with amusement as the common-born toilers floundered wretchedly amidst the chilling waves.

A gust of river wind raised white crests, and the child swayed unsteadily upon the reef, about to fall.

The underwater rocks were sharp and slick. If her skull struck them, the lightest outcome would be blood and bone, the heaviest, her very life lost.

Hearing the commotion, her mother turned in sudden horror, lunging desperately through the current to rescue her—but it was already too late—

Ripples widened across the river’s surface. A shadow appeared as if from the air, its feet barely brushing the water, shooting forward in a graceful arc. Tall and straight of form, the stranger scooped up the child effortlessly, and placed her into her mother’s arms.

The woman clutched her daughter tightly, releasing a long breath of relief. As she lifted her gaze to thank him, her heart stilled in alarm.

Before her stood a man clad all in black, head masked by a dark hat, a high ponytail bound with black silk. His face was hidden beneath a mask of worked iron, silver-white in the moonlight, concealing his features save for a pair of fine, clear eyes, cold and crystalline, sharp against the night.

In his hand gleamed a pale scabbard under the moon’s glow—within it was a blade that seemed made of cold light.

Jiangzhou was a vital hub between east and west. Along the rivers of Jiangzuo countless warlords and private militias had passed, leaving behind nothing but storms of violence and blood.

The woman, trembling, pulled her child behind her and braced herself to face him—but when she turned, the dark figure was already gone.

Instead, her hands suddenly weighed heavy. A cloth bag had been tossed into her grasp, laden with silver ingots.

She turned in shock toward the retreating form. In the night’s shadow, the black-clad figure had already leapt toward the distant barge. Only his youthful voice lingered in the river air:

“Go home quickly now.”

After an instant of stunned silence, chaos broke. The fisherman’s families scrambled ashore, fumbling over reefs and stones, fleeing without a backward glance.

On the barge, silken flutes and zithers cut off in a jarring halt. Light pooled across its decks, and upon the prow now stood the uninvited guest, his figure revealed in merciless clarity.

That silver mask struck the ship dumb. The clinking of golden goblets chimed as they fell to the planks.

A servant cried out harshly: “Who are you? What is your purpose here?!”

Ying Xiu’s posture was tall and imposing. Both hands held his blade—one upon the hilt, one upon the point—the sword sliding from its scabbard with a deadly whisper. A flash of frost gleamed along its edge. His voice was low and calm:

“I have come to kill.”

His gaze swept the gathered crowd as if in courtesy. “May I ask, where is the Lord of Jiangzhou?”

That lord, Xiangli Jue, was of the Wu clan and a southern noble. Throughout Jiangzhou’s Xunyang region, he had ruled with arrogant cruelty, despising those of immigrant stock, finding joy in inflicting suffering upon the displaced poor.

It was precisely this man whom Ying Xiu had come to kill tonight.

The silver blade shimmered with sharp light, devoid of ornamentation, yet flawless as if carved from moonshine. The young assassin held it carelessly, as if it were no more than a strand of radiant light in his palm.

There was no need for more words. Servants let out cries of rage as blades rasped from their sheaths, murderous air thick as a storm-cloud.

Steel struck steel, a cacophony echoing across the deck. Wine spilled upon the floor, reflecting the clash of shadows and swords.

Ying Xiu moved like flowing wind, his robes fluttering as though snow in storm. One after another he slipped through layers of defense, a sword-stroke’s blood dripping steadily into a red trail. Yet, he had not killed. With only lightness of step and a swordsman’s grace he avoided their strikes, moving inexorably forward.

At last, deep within the hold of the barge, he found the trembling Jiangzhou lord cowering beneath the shrine.

“Holed up here in Jiangzhou, refusing imperial authority, oppressing your tenants, abusing the law, torturing the displaced—” Ying Xiu’s voice was calm as he raised his crimson-tipped blade to aim at the prefect beneath the shrine. “Do you have an explanation?”

Had the man answered and defended himself, Ying Xiu might have stopped to listen, even if it meant courting danger. But Xiangli Jue had no intention of speaking thus.

“…I—I can give you silver! My lands, my tenants, even the courtesan who reigns in Qinhuai—take them all!” The sword-light did not waver. Xiangli Jue stammered, then shouted: “You are one of the immigrants—you must be here to avenge those low-born dogs, aren’t you?!”

Cornered by death, his curses rang out: “You, all of you displaced and broken, without official rank or country—had Jiangzuo not given you shelter, the Xianbei would have slaughtered you all long ago!”

Before he could speak further, the shriek of a whistle split the darkness—skyward burst a rocket of fire, blossoming in light. On the neighboring barge, servants had loosed the signal. Before long, Xiangli clan troops would come.

It was now the third quarter of the ox-hour, five quarters yet until dawn.

By plan, he should have struck at the tiger-hour, slaying his target amidst the stir of fishing boats, then fled under cover. But his rescue of the child had undone all calculations.

Now, he was early by four quarters. Fishing boats had yet to return; the river lay bare. If surrounded, he would be trapped like a turtle in a jar.

He must delay—delay until the fifth quarter of tiger-hour, until his skiff arrived.

So Ying Xiu bound the limp warlord to the mast, set down a brocade seat, and sat opposite like master and guest. Only then did he lay his blade calmly against the man’s throat.

“I won’t kill him yet,” the masked assassin explained to the trembling servants. “I’ll wait a while, then kill him.”

His openness startled them. What plot lay hidden in such patience? Fear that he meant to draw the whole Xiangli retinue into one snare chilled their resolve. Some regretted having sent up the signal.

After but two breaths, one servant edged closer, both hands raised—then with a flick of his sleeve, loosed a volley of hidden darts.

Ying Xiu did not glance. His wrist tilted, the sword lifted—each dart deflected in a gleam of steel, returned with deadly precision.

Four quarters dragged on. From the ox-hour to tiger-hour, time bled away.

Until the first light broke in the east. Every trick had been exhausted—flashing blades, hidden arrows. Not once had the young assassin faltered.

As tiger-hour drew near, fishing boats began to return across Po’gang Crossing. Yet too, troop-ships of the Xiangli forces bore down, their archers stringing bows. Soon, he would be naught but a hedgehog of arrows.

He could wait no more.

Before all eyes, the assassin drove his blade swift through his target’s throat.

The sword, dripping, spun in a flourish. The mast’s rope snapped, and with a heavy crash the bleeding warlord plunged into the river’s depths, sending up waves immense.

Hidden by the spray, Ying Xiu abandoned mask and hat, sprang lithely over the water, seized a rope ladder, and climbed to a great vessel not far away, vanishing into its galleries.

This was no fishing craft, but a noble’s boat, golden and azure, lofted with pavilions—luxurious though restrained.

Such ships were guarded by hosts of retainers; boarding such was hardly safer. He might have tried the fishermen’s skiffs, yet between noble and common was a gulf absolute. To set foot upon a poor man’s craft would taint them with guilt and death.

So he chose the noble’s ark.

An excellent assassin wastes no sense. He listened for movements, marked footsteps. The hour was tiger still. Within the cabins, surely all still slept. Avoiding the guard-towers on deck, he would remain unseen.

Though he had only borrowed a ride, lacking even a seat, Ying Xiu nonetheless placed silver upon the floor with care.

He could not take passage without paying.

Darkness lay thick. Lamps along the gallery dangled, their tiny flames swaying in the wind, chiming faintly.

“Tang—!”

Ying Xiu swayed aside. An arrow whistled past, severing a lock of hair, quivering as it struck the pillar.

A heartbeat slower, and it would have pierced his chest.

The archer’s skill was masterful. On another day, perhaps he could learn a thing or two. That was, if he survived this exchange.

Sliding behind a pillar, Ying Xiu turned his wrist. His sword caught a glimmer of reflection, and as the bowman’s eye twitched, he flung wide a nearby door, vanishing into the chamber within.

The moment he did, silence fell grim outside.

The officer upon the guard-tower pressed down upon his bow. His hands halted mid-draw, dread flickering in his gaze.

That boy with sword—he had entered the Emperor’s private chamber.

He could not be blamed for laxity. Who would imagine a man scaling such vessels, poised as though upon nothing, fleet as wind?

Yet no matter how keen his skill, within the Emperor’s chamber, he was already dead.

Ying Xiu’s first impression was cold. The room was bare. Vast and empty, only bamboo screens billowed faintly in the draft.

The southern gentry delighted in talk of metaphysics. Their estates were perfumed, veiled in silks, filled with incense to feign transcendence.

Here was nothing—no silk, no scent, no ornament. The air was still, save for the faint warmth of blood, metallic, sharp, so familiar to an assassin’s senses.

He turned warily—and froze, caught within a cool gaze.

There knelt within the room a figure in white, robed yet unsleeved, hands resting upon a konghou.^1 His bearing was luminous and serene, yet untouched by powder, handsome and unadorned. Not nobility, but perhaps a man of service, a retainer. Or more—a hidden strategist.

In the trembling lamp-light, the white-robed recluse sat before his harp, like an exiled immortal.

Wind swept through the windows, lifting his robe into pale ribbons, a painting eternal.

A line from a book stirred in Ying Xiu’s heart: In youthful purity, beauty unmatched, his bearing radiant as spring.

Breath caught. He noted the black hair tied high, bound by ribbons with meticulous order. Assassins tied back their hair before killing, lest blood stain them.

Startled, Ying Xiu frowned. Had this man, too, just killed?

“Have you looked your fill?” The recluse’s voice was cool, like water and iron.

At the words, Ying Xiu’s heart lurched, pounding violently. He failed even to sense the danger upon crossing the threshold.

“…You are so beautiful.”

The youth’s voice trembled, sincerity blushing through his pallor. His eyes glittered like twin stars. Even the sword in his hand shook.

As an assassin, Ying Xiu seldom conversed with the living. At times only with his prey—some sobbed and begged, some cursed in fury. Yet in moments, they were always dead.

To him, killing was simple. Speaking was harder. Politeness and honesty, he thought, could not go wrong.

The Emperor Zhaosu plucked the harp once, though blood upon the floor whispered of intrigue yet unwashed. Another boy had entered—foolish, innocent.

Blundering, awkward, staring without restraint, like a curious fawn.

Was this their new assassin?

Never before had he seen one like this.

The Emperor set down the harp—and walked toward him.

^1 Konghou – An ancient Chinese harp-like instrument, played horizontally or vertically in court music.