The Shadow on the Rooftop

We crashed down into a dense forest of pear blossoms.

By the laws of gravity, two hulking bodies weighing over one hundred and fifty kilos apiece, plummeting from thousands of meters, should have splattered into paste upon impact—our souls scattered to the heavens. But this was the world of illusions, where physics held no sway. So when we plunged into the flowering grove, we suffered no mortal injury. Only showers of petals burst into the air, branches quivering from the force of our fall.

I blinked in confusion, raising my head. We were still inside the Western Jin Prince’s estate. Yet the blossoms around us glowed with the brilliance of early spring, the cool breath of March biting into my skin. We had made it into the illusion realm—“safely,” if one ignored the fact that I was dangling like a ragdoll, snagged by the back of my collar on a branch. A single bough jutted out, hooking me like a stray cloak.

Meanwhile, Gongsun Bai stood tall atop the pear tree, surrounded by thousands of blossoms in radiant bloom.

“What a lovely view,” he sighed with infuriating serenity.

I wanted to punch him. Truly.

Thankfully, after a quarter-hour, he finally realized that if he offended me, he might never walk out of this illusion alive. With that thought, he dutifully clambered down and set me free.

My feet had barely touched the ground when the hiss of steel cut through the grove. We crept forward, cautious, until we found three figures locked in combat.

One woman, two men. Steel clashed as the trio fought fiercely.

The woman, dressed in plain robes, wielded a pair of crescent-shaped blades. Her movements rose and fell like waves, driving the two masked assassins back step by step. Not far away lounged another figure, reclining on cushions with legs crossed like a drunken courtesan. A teacup dangled in his fingers as he called out encouragement.

“My lady is magnificent! Fierce and mighty!”

Who else could this be but Gongsun Yanshu?

The woman’s brows knitted. With a swift arc, she severed one assassin’s pinky finger and flicked it across the air. The severed digit landed neatly on Yanshu’s table.

Without even glancing up, he brushed it aside with his chopsticks and chuckled.
“I was only complimenting you, my dear. Why such cruelty?”

Moments later, the two assassins fell dead at her feet. Her white robes remained spotless, as if blood itself dared not cling to her. She strode over, seized Yanshu’s sleeve, and wiped her blades clean before uttering two cold words:

“More money. Today’s quarry were the Mandrake Twins—assassins with a bounty of three thousand gold. I’ll give you a discount. Two thousand four.”

Yanshu’s grin was positively lecherous as he massaged her shoulders.
“Add, add, add. However much you desire, I’ll give.”

The woman glanced down, snapped his finger until bone cracked, and his scream echoed through the grove.

There was no mistaking it—this woman was Lady Pear.

In terms of looks, she was no great beauty. Yet the world knows two kinds of beauties. The first are those born with celestial faces, radiant even in sackcloth. The second are situational beauties—plain at first glance, but under the right attire, the right light, they blaze like a storm. Lady Pear was of the second kind.

Her features were ordinary. But when she raised those crescent blades, her presence eclipsed all else. Especially the mole beneath her left eye, a tiny red mark that caught the light whenever she lifted her gaze. That flash of scarlet, fierce and tender all at once, was devastating.

Yanshu, notorious wastrel of the Gongsun clan, was reduced to a groveling hound before her. She said east, he dared not go west. True, those twin blades had something to do with his obedience—they weren’t cheap. Each draw of steel cost him thousands of gold. Killing him outright would mean no more payments. So Lady Pear chose the more profitable method: bleeding him dry, coin by coin.

For all her aloof pride and legendary jealousy, Lady Pear was astonishingly mercenary. Once her fee was negotiated, she retired to her chambers. By evening, Yanshu’s servants delivered two thousand four hundred gold coins, wrapped with bolts of brocade. She pocketed the gold and tossed the silks back out.

Her real name was Wan Ling—the infamous “Twin-Bladed Slayer.” They said her ambidextrous hands could whirl crescent blades faster than the eye could follow, heads tumbling before the victim even realized she’d moved.

Yanshu hadn’t hired her out of romance, not at first. He had seduced the sacred maiden of the Laqi tribe, earning a death warrant from her people. Assassins came in waves. He nearly died several times before deciding that only a greater evil could fend off the lesser. Thus, Wan Ling.

Disguises abounded—assassins as gardeners, servants, even one of Yanshu’s concubines. To guard him properly, Wan Ling had to move into the estate. She became “Lady Pear,” living by his side.

At first, Yanshu only wanted her blades. But when he saw her, desire burned brighter than fear. He demanded “close protection.” Wan Ling doubled her rates. Yanshu agreed in an instant, delighted to keep her near. She was soon the favored mistress of his household, envied and hated by all.

Day after day, she felled assassins as easily as chopping vegetables. Yanshu watched her fight from his mat outside her chamber, drooling and clapping like a lovesick fool.
“My lady is mighty! My lady is fierce!” he cheered.

To which she inevitably snarled, “Shut up!” before an assassin’s blade grazed her side.

Thus their bizarre partnership flourished. He provoked, she punished. He laughed, bloodied and bruised. The cycle repeated, a dance of blades and bruises.

After three or four days of watching, I finally asked Bai, “Are all men of your Gongsun clan this infuriating?”

He blinked. “What? How did you come to that conclusion? Do I resemble him?”

“Don’t you? I always thought he learned his shamelessness from you.”

Bai’s shoulders stiffened, struck as if by lightning.

That night, the routine shifted. Wan Ling extinguished the lamps with a flick. Yanshu lay awake, listening to the rustle of her disrobing. His voice came tentative, sly.
“My lady… shall we not share a bed tonight? It’s warm. I’ve just heated it for you.”

For once, she didn’t answer with steel. Instead, with a sudden motion, she dove beneath his quilt.

Yanshu trembled, lips parting in astonishment, then grinned with wild delight. He tugged the covers up, cocooning them both.

I gaped. “Isn’t he afraid she’ll gut him in his sleep?”

Bai merely pointed to the roof.

I followed his gesture—and saw the assassin crouched above.

Of course. The greatest role of villains was not to torment the heroes, but to create chances for lovers to be alone. If Wan Ling and Yanshu ever became truly bound, they owed their matchmaker’s award to assassins like this one.

Yanshu’s heart pounded. The warmth of her body pressed close. His hand wandered—until it brushed cold steel. A blade pressed against his thigh.

Wan Ling’s voice whispered in the dark.
“It’s Ghost Shadow.”

The deadliest assassin alive. A master of silent weapons, unseen until the strike. To summon him from retirement cost a fortune beyond imagining.

Wan Ling dared not let him sense their awareness. So she played her role—continuing the charade. She loosened ties, layer by layer, until her undergarments were nearly gone. Her jaw was tight, her pride bleeding through every reluctant movement.

Yanshu saw her discomfort. His eyes widened. And suddenly, in an act as reckless as it was sincere, he flipped their positions. He pressed her beneath him, pulling the quilt up like a shield.

“The last garment,” he whispered, “allow me to remove it for you.”