She swallowed the nausea, small hands sifting through the Daemon’s corpse-ash like cold sand, because even a thin thread of chance is still a thread, isn’t it?

Plop...

A round orb rolled from the ash and thudded onto the stone. Ling stooped, puffed away the grime with a quick breath, then studied it under a still gaze like a moon over a pond.

It was just a ball—nothing fancy. Red lacquer veined with black, good as a trinket on a shelf, maybe a pathfinder in a pinch, a lantern for lost steps.

On gamer instinct—meaning poking at random—her fingertip found a tiny ridge. Mana threaded from her skin into the core; a red flash bloomed; an arrow sprang above the orb, wobbling like a reed in wind, then locking to one true direction. When she turned, the arrow swung back, stubbornly pointing to where it had been.

Emmm... an otherworld compass?

She shook off the snark like dust off a coat and got back to the plan.

—A little-girl prayer in progress—

After a 365-li trek, Ling finally stood atop a low peak. Ahead sprawled a vast city, her target, a dark crown set on red earth.

From the height, she had to admit it was handsome: black, medieval-styled buildings like ink strokes; citizens draped in black; their skin a standard red—drop Ling into that tide and she’d stick out like a white crane in a charcoal flock.

A prickle of caution first, then calculation: as a genius, she knew the face she wore would draw enemy eyes, spark trouble like sparks on dry pine.

Unacceptable for Master Assassin Yufan Ling. So, disguise first, storm later.

But where do I conjure a disguise?

Dun-dun-dun-dun!

She did her own sound effects, then reached into her Script-space, that fourth-dimensional pocket, pulling out outfits and cosmetics hoarded on a whim—and, ahem, the “borrowed” changing booth peeled… borrowed… from someone’s shop. Borrowed for real. She’d return it when she eventually died, promise.

Inside the booth, she wriggled into sleek black, a dashing coat swallowing her petite frame like night swallowing a candle. She went to pick a couple small accents to break the monotone, but the trinkets snagged her heart like fishhooks.

Two choices glinted before her: a plain cross pendant, or a silver mini-axe for the waist—her assassin’s badge. The forked path drove Master Assassin Yufan Ling into endless indecision, a moth circling twin flames.

Hmph. Only kids pick. I’ll take neither.

With a dismissive huff, she dug into the Script again. A small green cap slid into her palm. She set it on; a king’s aura rolled off her like thunder over mountains—anyone who saw would blurt, “Terrifying indeed!”

Disguise sharp as a blade, she folded up the reusable booth and faced the black city. Time to slip in like rain through bamboo.

—

Light-footed, she ran to the base of the wall. Seeing no one, she burst upward, feet tapping the stone like a gecko, and vaulted over.

Tap...

Before her soles settled, her left ear caught a faint footstep, a ripple in still water. Ling dropped back, clinging to the edge, body flat against the wall like a shadow pinned to ink.

Tap... tap... tap.

Footfalls swelled, coming her way. Breath stopped first, then heartbeat climbed the drum—each step closer, her pulse thumped harder, palms misting with sweat like dew on leaves.

“Report! Something over here!”

The shout siphoned the steps away. A crisp female voice answered, ringing like a bell.

“On my way!” Then a small, sharp complaint: “Tch, unlucky. Why so much trouble lately?”

The footsteps faded like tide pulling back. Ling eased up and slipped over the top.

Phew—

Feet finally on stone, she sagged against the wall, adrenaline buzzing like hornets. Sweat slicked her palms; her heart still pounded, boom-boom, like a drum in a temple hall.

Even if I get spotted, it’s fine—I’ll just erase the witness. But getting caught at the starting line? That’s losing face.

Overall? I’m pretty amazing. Not for nothing—Master Assassin.

While she congratulated herself, her breath steadied. She rose to move on.

As she stood, her coat stirred a thin breeze. Something almost invisible lifted, a whisper in air. Others might miss it, but Ling’s hawk-eye caught the spark.

She snapped two fingers, pinched the drifting thing, and peered. A long strand of hair, rare as cherry blossoms in winter—pink.

Pink hair?

She’d seen that color somewhere. Where?

...

Puzzlement first, then a long frown. The answer refused to surface, like a fish just under black water.

She gave up, flicked it away. If it mattered, she wouldn’t have forgotten, right?