Chapter 37: Whispers of the Past

The voice cut off mid-sentence, replaced by a sharp whistle of air. Lin Feng's instincts—honed by the Sword God's memories—screamed a warning a heartbeat before the first projectile materialized from the treeline. He threw himself sideways, dragging Chen Wei with him. A black dart the length of his forearm embedded itself in the trunk where his chest had been, quivering with a venomous green sheen.

“Ambush!” Chen Wei shouted, unnecessary but instinctive. Her sword was already free of its scabbard, a crescent of silver light arcing toward the tree line.

Lin Feng rolled, came up in a crouch, and drew his own blade. The jade pendant around his neck pulsed with an uncomfortable heat, and he felt the Sword God's presence stir—not speaking, but watching. Waiting.

Three figures emerged from the forest. They moved with the fluid grace of trained killers, their robes the color of dried blood. Masks covered their faces—bone-white porcelain painted with a single red tear beneath the left eye. Lin Feng didn't recognize the insignia, but the Sword God's memories supplied the answer with cold certainty.

*Crimson Lotus Society. Assassins. Foundation Establishment peak, all three.*

“They're strong,” Lin Feng muttered. “Foundation Establishment.”

Chen Wei's eyes widened, but she didn't flinch. “We've faced worse.”

“We faced disciples,” he corrected. “These are professionals.”

The lead assassin—a woman by the tilt of her hips and the way she held her twin daggers—inclined her head as if acknowledging the assessment. “The boy knows his enemies. Good. It makes this less boring.”

“Who sent you?” Lin Feng demanded.

“Does it matter?” The assassin's voice was honey over broken glass. “You've offended someone with deep pockets and patient grudges. The sect that shelters you is already burning. Consider this a courtesy—a swift death, rather than the one your teacher will suffer.”

Ice flooded Lin Feng's veins. “What did you say about the sect?”

The assassin laughed—a sound like chimes struck in a tomb. “Oh, you haven't heard? The Seven Stars Sect was attacked three nights ago. The Elders are dead or scattered. Your Master Gao—”

“You're lying.” The words came out as a snarl, and Lin Feng felt something shift in his chest. The pendant blazed against his skin, and the Sword God's presence surged forward, not speaking but *pushing*, offering power like a merchant offering poisoned wine.

*Take it. Let me end them.*

“I don't need you,” Lin Feng growled, more to himself than the voice.

The assassin tilted her head. “Talking to yourself? How sad. The Seven Stars Sect is rubble. Your precious Master Gao took a blade through the heart from the Obsidian Hand himself. The survivors fled like rats. And you—you're the last loose end.” She spread her arms, daggers glinting. “So come, little rat. Let us finish what was started.”

Something snapped in Lin Feng's mind. Not the careful control he'd maintained since the pendant awakened—something deeper, more primal. The qi in his meridians, already raw from days of the Sundering Step, erupted like a dam breaking.

He moved without thinking. No Step, no technique—just pure, unadulterated rage translated into motion. His blade sang through the air, a horizontal slash aimed at the assassin's throat.

She blocked—barely. Her eyes widened as his sword crashed against her crossed daggers, driving her back a full three steps. The force of the blow sent shockwaves through her arms, and for the first time, doubt flickered in her gaze.

“Interesting,” she breathed. “The reports said you were weak.”

“The reports were wrong.”

Lin Feng pressed the attack. Each strike was fueled by images of the sect he'd left behind—Master Gao's patient smile, Elder Yuan's gruff encouragement, the training yard where he'd been the laughingstock of every disciple. They were his family. The only family he'd ever known.

And now they were ash.

The second assassin moved to flank him, a spear materializing from a storage ring. Chen Wei intercepted, her sword meeting the spear with a clash of sparks. “I've got this one!” she shouted. “Take the leader!”

Lin Feng didn't need the encouragement. He drove forward, his blade a blur of silver light. The assassin leader retreated, her daggers weaving a defensive web that somehow held against his onslaught. She was good—better than anyone he'd faced in the sect. Every counter was precise, every dodge economical.

But she was also off-balance. She hadn't expected resistance. She'd expected to execute a crippled disciple, not fight a cornered beast.

“The Obsidian Hand,” Lin Feng snarled, pressing his advantage. “Who are they?”

“You'll meet them soon enough,” she hissed, pivoting to avoid a thrust that would have impaled her. “They're already hunting you. They're already hunting your little friend with the sword. And when they catch you—” She lunged, daggers flashing in a twin-strike pattern that would have disemboweled a lesser fighter.

Lin Feng twisted. The first dagger sliced through his outer robe, drawing a line of fire along his ribs. The second he caught on his blade, redirecting the force and spinning past her guard.

His sword tip drew a crimson line across her cheek.

She recoiled with a snarl, touching the wound. Blood welled between her fingers, and the porcelain mask cracked from the impact, falling away to reveal a face that was surprisingly young—no older than twenty-five, with sharp features and eyes the color of dying embers.

“You cut me,” she said, her voice dropping to something cold and murderous. “No one cuts me.”

“First time for everything.”

Lin Feng felt the pendant surge again, and this time he didn't fight it. The Sword God's memories flooded his mind—not as a takeover, but as a torrent of knowledge. He saw a technique, ancient and terrible, designed for moments when the user faced overwhelming odds.

*The Sundering Blade. Sacrifice qi for power. Each use costs a year of cultivation.*

It was a forbidden technique. The kind that left permanent damage if used too often.

He used it anyway.

The world slowed. His qi exploded outward, not as energy but as *intent*, coating his blade in a shimmering edge that hummed with killing potential. The assassin leader's eyes widened, and she finally—*finally*—showed fear.

“That's impossible. You're only—”

Lin Feng struck. The blade moved faster than sound, faster than thought, faster than the assassin's reflexive blocks. It caught her across the chest, not deep but *true*, carving through her robes and the spirit-armor beneath.

She crashed backward into a tree, blood spraying from the wound. The remaining two assassins—locked in combat with Chen Wei—hesitated, their eyes darting to their leader.

“Retreat!” the woman gasped, clutching her chest. “He's not worth the bounty! Retreat!”

They fled. Lin Feng let them go, his legs threatening to buckle as the cost of the Sundering Blade crashed into him. He felt his cultivation base—already thin from months of progress—shrink by a visible margin. A year of potential, burned in a single strike.

*Worth it*, the Sword God's voice rumbled. *But don't make a habit of it.*

“Shut up,” Lin Feng wheezed, leaning on his sword.

Chen Wei was at his side in an instant, her hand on his shoulder. “That was insane. You could have killed yourself.”

“They said the sect was attacked. They said Master Gao is—” He couldn't finish the sentence.

Chen Wei's expression flickered. She'd heard the assassin's words too. “She was probably lying. Trying to rattle you.”

“What if she wasn't?”

Silence stretched between them. The forest was quiet again, the birdsong slowly returning as the threat receded. Lin Feng looked down at his hands, at the calluses and scars accumulated through months of brutal training. The pendant still pulsed against his chest, but its warmth felt accusing now.

*You could have been there. You could have protected them.*

Instead, he'd been running from the Obsidian Hand—whoever they were—while his family was slaughtered.

“We need to change course,” Chen Wei said quietly. “If the sect is truly fallen, the capital might be a trap. They'll expect us to go there.”

Lin Feng shook his head. “No. We go to the capital anyway.”

“But—”

“If the sect is gone, if Master Gao is dead, then the only way to find answers is through the Heavenly Mandate Tournament.” He straightened, ignoring the screaming protest of his muscles and meridians. “The tournament is the one place where the great powers converge. Someone there knows the truth about the Obsidian Hand. Someone there can tell me who ordered the attack.”

Chen Wei studied him for a long moment. “And if it's a trap?”

“Then I'll spring it.” Lin Feng sheathed his blade and looked toward the distant outline of the capital, visible as a smudge on the horizon. “The sect trained me to be their weakest disciple. They didn't expect me to become their last hope. But I am.” He started walking, each step agonizing, each movement a reminder of the price he'd just paid. “And I won't let their deaths be meaningless.”

Chen Wei fell into step beside him. For a long time, neither spoke.

Finally, as the sun climbed higher and the pain in his meridians faded to a dull ache, Lin Feng asked the question that had been burning in his mind since the assassin's revelation. “Did you know?” He didn't look at her. “About the Obsidian Hand?”

Chen Wei's silence was answer enough.

“They approached me three months ago,” she said finally. “Before you awakened the pendant. They offered me a place in their ranks. Protection. Power.” She laughed bitterly. “I turned them down. I didn't know they were planning to attack the sect.”

“But you knew they existed.”

“I knew the name. Nothing more.” She met his gaze, her eyes steady. “I swear it, Lin Feng. I didn't betray them.”

He wanted to believe her. He needed to believe her. But doubt was a splinter in his mind, working its way deeper with every step.

“Then we have a problem,” he said. “Because if the Obsidian Hand is powerful enough to destroy the Seven Stars Sect, they'll have eyes everywhere. They'll know we're coming.”

“So what do we do?”

Lin Feng touched the pendant, feeling its power pulse in response. The Sword God's presence stirred again, and this time, it spoke with clarity that bordered on physical sound.

*Stop running. Start hunting.*

He smiled—a cold expression that didn't reach his eyes. “We stop being the prey.”

The road ahead stretched toward the capital, and somewhere beyond it, the answers he sought. And somewhere in the shadows, his enemies were waiting.

Let them wait. He was done running.