The west courtyard was silent — too silent.
Li Yun walked through moonlight like a man on a stroll, hands behind his back, wine gourd gently slapping his hip. The faint sound of music and laughter from the banquet grew distant, replaced by rustling bamboo and the soft crunch of gravel beneath his boots.
He was supposed to meet someone here.
Instead, he found… no one.
His smile faded.
"Either someone's late," he muttered, "or someone thinks I'm worth ambushing."
He was right.
A blur of movement. A shadow dropped from the eaves above.
The blade came fast — not noble showmanship, but killer's instinct. No warning, no words. Just death aimed at his throat.
Li Yun didn't panic.
He didn't even move.
The ring moved for him.
A shimmer, subtle and instant — like air bending around him. The assassin's blade missed by half an inch, diverted by something unseen.
The attacker stumbled forward in confusion, clearly expecting a clean kill.
Li Yun's hand shot out.
His fingers pulsed — the Iron Ring glowed faintly, like an ancient eye snapping open.
A surge of invisible force struck the assassin in the chest. Not enough to kill — just enough to send him flying backward into a bamboo pole with a thud and a cry.
The ring faded, its glow vanishing like a sigh.
Li Yun stepped forward, brushing dust from his sleeve.
The assassin groaned, trying to rise.
"Sloppy footwork," Li Yun said, crouching beside him. "And if you're going to ambush a drunk noble, pick one who isn't ex-military and secretly cultivating under everyone's nose."
He grabbed the assassin by the collar.
"Who sent you?"
The man hissed. "You're… not supposed to be—"
"Alive?" Li Yun grinned. "Yes, I get that a lot."
Before the assassin could speak again, a dart flew through the air and embedded in his neck. His eyes went wide. He collapsed.
Dead.
Li Yun slowly stood, watching the shadows. Whoever gave the order was still watching — cleaning their tracks already.
"Professional," he muttered. "Which means this wasn't Zhao Feilong. He'd hire musicians and forget to pay them."
He looked at the ring on his finger.
It looked dull again. Harmless. Like an old family heirloom. But his heartbeat hadn't slowed.
That glow...
That protection...
And the burst of force from his palm — it wasn't qi.
It was something deeper.
Ancient.
The ring hadn't saved him.
It had reacted.
He returned to the banquet a few minutes later, robe dusty, fan missing, a wine stain on his cuff.
He looked exactly how they expected him to look — disheveled, disoriented, and half-drunk.
Perfect.
Only one person noticed something off.
Jin Yunhua.
She watched him from across the hall. Watched how his stride didn't match his swagger. How his hand, stained with blood he thought he'd wiped clean, brushed the edge of a dumpling plate without looking.
He was too calm.
Too precise.
Too clean beneath the mess.
Her eyes narrowed. But she said nothing.
Li Yun smiled to himself as he sat back down.
A dead assassin, a veiled observer, a half-awakened artifact.
It was a good night.