Night thickens like spilled ink; the autumn wind scrapes like a dull blade; only footsteps echo, stone drops in a well.

At this hour, strays are scarce like moths after the lamp dies; they can sweep the alley without fear of outside meddling.

“Heard our ring got torn, like a hole in a net; must be that guy’s reinforcements.”

“Gotta be, or who else dives in like a moth to a brazier? See our stance and still come—suicide written in ash.”

“Just don’t know how many came, like wolves in fog; will it tip the balance?”

“Stop fretting; drag out every rat from the eaves. I don’t buy that a handful of help can dam our river.”

Patrolmen murmur under breath, voices like reeds rubbing; their tone shows they’ve marked the intruder, but the hunter’s blind to the rabbit in grass.

Their encirclement isn’t silk-fine, but it’s woven broad like a fishing net; anyone who slips through isn’t a common fish.

So their guard climbs, iron clanging like frost; higher than before, lanterns steady and eyes sharper.

Earlier was simple—one foe, like a lone wave; now they don’t even know how many, so caution knots tight like wet rope.

Under night’s curtain, patrols multiply like bamboo shoots, each face drawn taut, not letting even a mosquito slip the mesh.

In a place wound this tight, walking out is like stepping through thorns; easy talk, hard feet.

Yun Shi peeks out, breath a quiet string; the patrols look sharper, just as she expected, like cats at doors.

She draws back, nerves tight as bowstring. “They’re jumpy now. If we force it, odds tilt dark.”

Sham exhales, a wry smile like smoke. “Yeah. You walked in clean and cut their pattern.”

“Our edge is fog—they don’t know our number. They picture a crowd, or at least iron hands. Truth is, it’s just me, a loose stone.”

Sham tilts her head, eyes questioning like winter birds. “So what’s your play?”

“If I came, I came with lines drawn.”

Yun Shi leans close, her whisper a thread in rain, sketching the plan for Sham’s ear.

Sham listens, nods like a reed dipping, eyes flashing a shard of approval.

“Nice. That’s the sharpest knife.”

She can’t help it—thumb up, praise like a spark.

Yun Shi keeps her heart cool, like snow under a lamp. “Thinking is paper; doing is fire. Don’t crown it yet—results write the truth.”

She doesn’t bask; her mind stays clear as mountain spring. The trap still sits dark, and she won’t loosen her grip.

The goal is escape, like catching a tide; not trading blows for pride.

“I get it. I’m with you all the way.”

Sham clenches a fist, confidence like a lantern lit.

Night is a fickle hour, people moving on gut like birds in mist; whether it holds, luck writes the last line.

Yun Shi leads Sham on a quiet run, shadows slipping like fish; they find a looser patch—only four or five patrols, faces slack like lazy crows.

Perfect; she needs reeds that bend.

“Got a gun?”

“Yeah. What for?”

Sham hands it over, curiosity like a cat’s ear.

She remembers Yun Shi only spoke of retreat, like wind leaving leaves.

Bang!

Yun Shi doesn’t answer; she shoots one clean, the sound cracking like ice, a man dropping like a felled tree.

Bang! Bang!

A few more shots, crisp as hailstones; the rest crumple, no time to lift a hand, lives snuffed like candles in rain.

“Enemy attack!”

“Hurry! The shots came from there!”

Yun Shi barely finishes and the alley floods with running feet, shouts like crows erupting.

“What are you doing? You lit us up like a beacon!”

They’d been hoarding bullets like winter grain; now Yun Shi burns a whole stack.

“Relax—this is part of the weave.”

She stays calm, aims at empty brick like pointing at fog, and empties a magazine—metal rain on a bare road.

It looks like pure waste, bullets scattered like seeds.

Hard to guess what she’s painting with this noise.

“Shh. They’ll swarm to the gunfire like ants to sugar. They still don’t know our count. I’ll hook around; you follow.”

“Oh.”

At this point, can she even argue against the current?

This isn’t what they agreed, like the wind turning without warning…

“Where?”

“Close—check the walls!”

Crouched in shadow, watching chaos ripple like a pond kicked, Yun Shi’s pulse stays steady, and a small pride curls like smoke.

When her eyes open again, they’re stained crimson, Blood Pupil blooming like a red moon; her aura presses like stormweight.

A blood-shadow streaks past; before anyone blinks, a ragged wound opens like a torn banner, blood gushing like a broken spring. Pain ends in silence, a door shut.

“Enemy attack—watch your corners!”

Just as she drew it, panic blooms like thistles; now their line is ripe for the knife.

She breathes deep, chill in her gaze like winter glass; she moves feather-light, a leaf on wind, slips into their center in heartbeats, and culls three, neat as shears.

Blood Pupil hones her reflexes like whetstone to steel; her speed spikes, a swallow’s dart, built for killing clean.

Most of all, she vanishes right after, never lingering; all they see is a blood-red afterimage, not the hand that draws it.

“Who the hell is that…”

Nerves fray like old rope; fear climbs, a fox in the henhouse, each man wondering if the blade’s tip points his way next.

“Power this sharp… Are there more? Hidden blades in the dark? Damn it—who brought such a thorn into our yard…”

The lead man convinces himself it’s many, not one—maybe comfort, maybe a guess, a straw in floodwater to stay afloat.

“Operation—Phase Two.”

From shadow, Yun Shi counts calmly, thoughts like stones laid in a path.

They’re panicking now, inner guard cranked to the peak like a tightened drum; no need to feed more chaos.

While their vigilance spikes, she slips away, a swift line under Blood Pupil’s blessing, motion clean as a fox’s run.

On the far side, scattered foes hear the noise and start moving, geese changing course toward stormlight.

Thwick! Thwick! Thwick!

Blood bolts slit the air like crimson arrows; bodies drop like wheat under a sickle, and they glimpse only a blood-red blur skimming past.

“Full combat, now!”

They can’t hold steady in a scene like this; they cluster fast, trying to net a phantom.

Boom!

Grenades fall like hammered thunder; explosions bloom, then machine guns stitch the night like steel rain.

Ratatat!

Yun Shi doesn’t stand idle; she draws her sidearm and sows lead into the crowd, calm under the bullet storm like a rock in surf. With Blood Pupil, her shots don’t err—lives fold like paper.

Unthinkable it’s one person; shock hangs in their eyes like frost.

They see it’s a single intruder, yet her force hits like a river in flood.

“Movement there!”

“Bad—bait! They pinned us here on purpose! While we flail, they’re gutting the other unit. Our strength thins like watered ink. Cunning snake!”

By the time the leader clocks the truth, the hour hand aligns; rage snaps like a whip, and he drives everyone toward the trap’s mouth.

“Operation—Phase Three.”

Yun Shi watches the charging line like a tide of helmets, voice steady as dusk. She names the next step like a bell.

Sham, waiting like a hunter in brush, sees Yun Shi’s hand signal and knows the play finally turns.

Sham raises her gun and fires into the empty patch where Yun Shi sprayed before, shots ringing like stones on tin, baiting the rushing pack.

“There! More enemies!”

“Just bluster. That earlier firing was a feint to pull my eyes—he rattled our hearts. Not again. You—go, gut the shooter!”

“Yes!”

The plan’s sketch was simple: Sham fires, pull their feet off rhythm, then Yun Shi drags her through the gap like a river mouth.

Sham still doesn’t know every trick; she knows only to kick their formation crooked, like a table leg loose.

“Good. We move.”

Yun Shi returns fast, having lured them aside like a matador, then slips back without wasting a breath.

“Hold up—few left uncut.”

“No problem. On it.”

Bang bang bang!

Light work—these are shrimps and crabs, cleared like sweeping leaves; the enemy thinks it’s a skirmish with uneven numbers and doesn’t mind, never guessing it’s clean gun kills.

“You’re good—thinking like this on the fly.”

Sham can’t stop praising, words like bright coins.

“The fight’s not done. Don’t relax. Go.”

Yun Shi keeps it spare; her aim stays the same—escape to ground that breathes, not glory on a blood-slick street.

“Gotta say, you’re born for battle.”

Though she’s of Clan Head stock, Sham admires the weave, a smile like a crescent blade.

She uses the enemy’s fear to paint a mirage, then repeats the trick, and when they stop biting, that’s the door in the wall.

One ruse folds into another, locks into the next like jade links, and the tide turns under a hidden moon.

No wonder she’s the one chosen by the Artifact Spirit; talent rings like metal.

It’s a pity she won’t be a Witch; she could tilt the Underworld’s balance like a weight on a scale.

“Let’s go, Xiao Yun.”

With the enemy dragged off like herded goats, their guard is slack; miss this window, and the cage closes.

Night’s footsteps and shouts grate like gravel; first half of the night fades, and the back half opens like a darker door.