The next day, Ouyang led First Squad to scour the bandit burrows around Qiuya City, and his wraith army swelled like winter fog to over a thousand. They seized a trove worth a small fortune.

Those goods were stashed by the bandit chiefs in a place sealed like a buried seed; no one else knew the spot. At first the chiefs were iron-boned under questioning, granite faces in a storm. That was when the Trio earned their keep. At Ouyang’s word, the three went back and forth, tormenting the leaders like relentless tides; most broke to die quick rather than linger.

Some never yielded, even with pain like knives twisting, and they refused to say where the hoard lay. After thinking it over, the Trio asked Ouyang to kill them and raise them as wraiths. Ouyang didn’t see why at first, a calm moon over an unknown shore, but he granted them anyway. As wraiths, the three gained bodies like clay, shifting shapes wherever they pleased.

Then, in their chosen art, they went even more over the top, a carnival in the dark; they could take on any form. Even Ouyang’s third persona couldn’t bear to watch, his face like a closed fan. When the sounds faded like embers, it was over. The Good Fellows’ chief, the Shadow bandits’ chief—one by one, they confessed. And with the bandits crushed, Ouyang’s wraith host rose past a thousand, a field of pale banners.

With more hands, Mapleleaf grew reckless, a hawk cutting wide circles. In Qiuya City, the black-cloaked torch-bearers who railed against straight couples became a fireside legend, a whisper that walked by night. Don’t flaunt your love—flaunt it and die fast; the saying hung over couples like frost.

Night fell like ink. Many young men, lonely singles, gulped dinner and pulled on black cloaks, torches blazing like red flowers as they prowled the streets. They weren’t any of Mapleleaf’s Twelve Squads. They were dropouts at heart, men unlucky with girls, mimicking the “Legend of the Night” to take revenge on the world. Not just young men; even bachelor uncles joined, gray smoke curling into the same flame.

In Qiuya City’s “Legend of the Night,” once darkness settled, a band of black-cloaked torch-men patrolled, and any couple showing off affection got marched to a pyre. Now, a pack of loveless singles wanted in on the FFF Brotherhood, but they couldn’t find the real cloaked ones. A few with clout took charge, and they ordered costumes from the tailor, stitching like spiders. Torches were easy to make, so most crafted their own “weapons,” a forest of burning stems. If the black-cloaked ones were only a “legend,” they would be the ones to make that legend walk again.

“Brothers, there’s a couple over there!” One sharp-eyed man spotted lovers tucked into a corner like sparrows. “Burn them—burn that shameless pair!” Killing straights had turned, without anyone noticing, into a creed, a thorn that kept growing.

A cluster of fireball spells streaked toward the man and woman, blooming into suns. Anyone who could cast fireball wasn’t ordinary; in this mob there were witches and mages mixed in like salt. The fireballs slammed, and the couple dropped in an instant, like candles snuffed.

A patrol saw the scene. The captain was newly appointed, a new broom eager to blaze, and he wanted to prove himself, a drum beating in his chest. He saw his chance like a coin on the road. If he grabbed the killers inside the walls, his merits would soar, a ladder straight up. This credit had to be his.

“Arrest those ruffians!” he barked, and a line of guards rushed the crowd like a wave. Seeing patrolmen coming and the couple dead by arcane fire, the crowd knew it had blown up. They scattered like startled fish. The patrol couldn’t let them run; those were living merits, gold with legs. If they got away, every dream would shatter like clay.

“Stop! Don’t run—you’re resisting arrest!” The captain tried to steady the crowd, voice like a rope. “Whether you killed anyone, the lord will judge. No one leaves!” “Resist and they’ll throw the book; confess and you’ll still rot—brothers, if they haul you in, you’re not coming out; slip away now!” A shout cut the air, and panic strings pulled every heart, sending bodies sprinting in all directions like leaves. Wearing black cloaks, they weren’t afraid of being recognized; as long as they weren’t caught, they’d be fine.

So they ran harder, like deer in snow. The captain saw his credit flying from his mouth, and he panicked, a kettle boiling over. “Stop! Who said you could go? There’s been murder—suspects don’t just walk away!” His words reminded everyone: murder. They ran even faster, feet like drums.

Seeing them not stop but speed up, the captain flushed with anger and shame, a blade in his throat. He drew his dress sword and flashed it in the air, hoping to scare them like a hawk’s shadow. A black-cloaked figure charged straight at the blade, a moth to light. Shhk—the captain’s sword pierced the man’s chest.

“Murder! The patrol murdered a man!” voices clanged in the noisy crowd, a pot of iron. The captain froze, bewildered, a statue in wind. He’d only swung to warn them; who would rush a decorative sword? A dress blade shouldn’t pierce so easily; why did a light bump skewer him?

While the captain reeled, another black cloak lunged. “You butcher! You killed my brother! I’ll fight you!” the man yelled, hands reaching to throttle the captain like hooks. He pounced, but the captain dodged, a step like a gust.

Shhk— A dagger punched through the captain’s back, cold as night, and out his chest. He turned with effort, eyes like gritted teeth, wanting to see the face behind him, but the hood drowned it in shadow.

Feint east, strike west. The man who tried to choke him was bait, empty hands meant to lull him. The real killing stroke came from the shadow. The patrol saw their captain fall, and panic burst like sparks.

In the gloom, a patrolman’s mouth was smothered by two hands and dragged into darkness like a net. A moment later, that same patrolman walked back out of the shadow, his movements odd, arms and legs lifting as if testing new strings. Soon he moved smoother, as natural as anyone, and he drew his sword from his belt. Catching a black cloak unguarded, he drove the blade in, a spike through cloth.

“Brothers, those criminals killed the captain—avenge him!” Seeing the guards killing ordinary people without restraint, others thought of the fallen captain, blood like a banner. Hearts heated, they pulled weapons and started cutting. In the crowd, both patrol and civilians had a few clear heads. They tried to stop the fighting, hands raised like dikes, and every time, hands from the shadows dragged them in. Anyone who tried to halt the riot vanished into darkness, and never came out again.

The turmoil kept grinding, like a mill with no one at the handle. Eventually it drew in Qiuya’s army and more civilians, a whirlpool widening. The uproar reached the city’s higher-ups, bells waking sleepers. They didn’t know how it began, but now both sides couldn’t back down. Civil and soldier, many had died like rain on stone. The army was easier; orders are mountains, and once the lord spoke, soldiers could halt the war with the people.

But the common folk were different. In their eyes there was no discipline, no code, only grief like ashes. They knew only that their kin died in that chaotic night. As for the killers—no need to ask; surely the army. Some left that riot with families broken, standing alone in the cold. Those were the ones with no fear, believing to the bone that they’d avenge their dead even if it killed them.

A thorny mess—the “Night Incident” left Qiuya City near paralysis, limbs asleep. Lucky for them, both sides kept some sense and chose to negotiate, to ease the knot. Talks gave both sides a buffer, and during that pause the crematorium’s business burned hottest, a furnace roaring.

The “Erase the Evidence” Crematorium had people coming and going, a stream like ants. They offered delivery; leave an address, a deposit, and a time. When the hour came, their workers pushed little carts to the spot and loaded the bodies, wheels squeaking like mice. They recorded every corpse, neat as tally marks. After the burn, the employer had to pay the balance to receive the ashes of friend or kin, a box of gray like moon-dust. If you didn’t want the ashes, you didn’t pay the rest—only the deposit, and walk away.

The crematorium’s services drew half the city; bodies kept rolling in like logs. Wraiths were born one by one, cold lanterns lighting in the dark. Boxes of unknown “ash” went home with residents and were buried, little graves like buttons sewn into earth.

“Heh, keep this up and our host will only grow,” Ouyang and Mapleleaf agreed, voices like a shared fire. “The war in Qiuya mustn’t stop. The peacemakers on both sides can’t meet at the same table. With civil war and steady deaths, our ranks swell like a rising tide, and the gods of faith won’t mark us.”