Escape

After a night of slaughter, a household that once held a thousand people now had fewer than a hundred left, barely fending off the endless assassins pouring in from outside the walls.

When Kun Buyu first fled, he had dozens of guards by his side. But by the time they reached the Sword-Edge Mountains at the border of Beiji, barely more than a dozen remained. No matter how they circled around, no matter how desperately they ran, the assassins always found them, forcing yet another battle to the death.

And the reason they could never shake pursuit—was the Phantom Moth.

At first glance, a Phantom Moth looked no different from any ordinary moth. But its wings shimmered with strange colors, patterned with two enormous sapphire eyes. These creatures were hypersensitive to illusionists. The moment any illusion was used, they would sense it and gather, fluttering around the caster no matter how far they had to fly.

In Yichuan, illusionists were rare. If a Phantom Moth appeared, it could only mean one thing: it had found a member of the Kun clan.

After days of fleeing, Kun Buyu’s body was covered in wounds. Though skilled in illusions, he dared not use them. At the Sword-Edge Mountains, their last horses collapsed and died of exhaustion. With no choice, Kun Buyu led the survivors on foot. If they could just cross the mountain and wade through the Wen River, they would reach the territory of Nan Chuan, where perhaps—just perhaps—they might draw a breath of safety.

During the climb, Kun Buyu received a report from Yang Zhong.

A small green bird circled in the sky, crying mournfully before alighting on Kun Buyu’s shoulder. From the bamboo tube tied to its leg, Kun Buyu drew out a letter. Just a few words—but as he read them, his eyes widened. Tears welled, trembling but refusing to fall. Finally, he clenched his teeth, crumpled the letter, and swallowed it whole.

“The Priest’s Manor is gone.”

Five words. Heavy with meaning. It was not only the manor that was gone, but the Kun clan itself. Xue Liangbi’s sudden strike had caught them unprepared. Centuries of the Kun family’s foundation had been wiped away in a single night.

Worse still, Xue Liangbi did not conceal his crime. He proclaimed it openly to the world, boasting that it was all his doing. He then published a list of eighteen great sins allegedly committed by the Kun clan: treason, betrayal, corruption, debauchery—the vilest charges he could invent, piling one atop another. His intent was clear: to bury the Kun family’s name in filth.

History is always written by the victors. Even if the Kun clan had not committed such deeds, once Xue Liangbi declared it, then in the eyes of the people, it was truth. Common folk are fickle; they believe whatever the rulers say.

Men are but ants.

The days of escape were harsh.

Beiji lay in the north of Yichuan, bordering West Han and East Yi. The only distant neighbor was Nan Chuan. Thus Kun Buyu decided to lead his remnants southward. To reach Nan Chuan from Beiji, they had to first skirt through West Han, cross the dense Mei Mountain Forest, and finally pass the Southern Mountains. The journey was long, perilous, and grueling.

Along the way, their numbers dwindled. From over twenty, to barely more than a dozen, to only a handful. One bitter night while crossing the Mei Mountain Forest, a hibernating black bear awoke and attacked. Forced into a corner, Kun Buyu was compelled to use illusion—just a tiny flame to drive the beast away. Yet even that was enough to summon the Phantom Moths.

Moths drew assassins. Assassins drew blood. Another brutal battle broke out. In the end, one loyal servant sacrificed himself, tumbling off a cliff to shield young Kun Hong. When the clash was over, only Kun Buyu, Kun Hong, and Wan Ling remained, fleeing into the darkness.

That night, Kun Hong, exhausted and starving, fell into a restless sleep. When he awoke, Kun Buyu was gone. Sitting by the fire, roasting a rabbit, was Wan Ling.

“Elder sister, where is my father?” he called.

Wan Ling gave no reply. She kept turning the rabbit on the spit, the fat sizzling, oil popping into the flames.

“Elder sister!” he shouted again. Still no answer.

After calling several more times with no response, Kun Hong lost his temper. He stomped over and shoved her hard. “I’m calling you—are you deaf?”

Wan Ling toppled sideways, the rabbit falling straight into the fire. Flames licked at the meat, the crackle growing wild. After a long moment, she slowly stood, brushed the ashes from her knees, and lifted her head. Only then did Kun Hong notice her eyes were red, clearly from crying.

His anger vanished. Regret seized him. He stammered an apology, but Wan Ling only wiped her eyes roughly and said nothing. Kun Hong, stunned, suddenly noticed a tiny red mole in the white of her left eye.

That hadn’t been there before.

“What’s wrong with your eye?”

“Nothing,” she said. She reached directly into the fire with bare hands, yanked out the half-burnt rabbit, and brushed the ash away. “Just a spark that flew into it.”

Kun Hong believed her, and began eating eagerly. But though he did not notice, I and Gongsun Bai, as unseen observers, saw the truth clearly.

A spark in the eye? Nonsense. Even the hardest of men would writhe and scream with agony if a coal struck their eye. How could this delicate girl bear it in silence? Clearly, she was lying. And the reason for her lie was pitiful—this was no injury.

It was a curse. A curse that would bind her for life.

It all began the day before.

Yesterday, assassins sent by Xue Liangbi had caught up with them. Dozens of enemies against just the three of them. At the most perilous moment, Wan Ling finally revealed her power—left hand a bow, right hand an arrow, both conjured from illusion. With a flurry of shots, she felled dozens. For the first time in three months of flight, Wan Ling had unleashed her true strength.

Yet Kun Buyu’s face only grew darker.

That night, he roasted two rabbits. Kun Hong ate and slept. Wan Ling sat by the fire, hugging her knees, prepared to keep watch. Then Kun Buyu called her aside.

He looked her straight in the eyes and said, enunciating every word:
“I never knew your cultivation had reached such depth. And you’ve been hiding it from me all this time.”

Wan Ling’s lips trembled. She said nothing.

“Since leaving Beiji, we have faced countless perils, watching our people die one by one. Yet you never lifted a finger. Only today, when death stared you in the face, did you act. Wan Ling—you are selfish. I truly misjudged you.”

Wan Ling collapsed to her knees.

Kun Buyu’s voice cracked like a whip: “Do you even know your place?”

Shivering, she answered: “Yes… Wan Ling knows. Wan Ling is a slave of the Kun family, born to die for them.”

“You know?” Kun Buyu sneered. “I think not. If not for Hong’er’s pleas, I would never have brought you along. Do you understand—your life belongs to Kun Hong?”

She whispered that she understood.

“Then are you willing to die for him?”

She hesitated, then said yes.

“Good.” Kun Buyu exhaled heavily, and collapsed to the ground. He had taken a blade to the chest earlier, and though he had held on until now, his strength was spent. His expression softened at last. He beckoned. “Come here.”

Wan Ling shuffled forward on small steps. Kun Buyu placed a heavy hand on her head. “They say daughters resemble their fathers. Indeed—you resemble me greatly.”

Boom!
Like thunder in her skull. Wan Ling froze. Even we, watching from a distance, were struck dumb, unable to grasp what had just unfolded.

Kun Buyu continued calmly: “Surprised? Yes—you are my daughter. You and Kun Hong are siblings, born of the same mother. Only, one was born a master, the other a slave.”

Wan Ling’s eyes flared red. She glared, teeth sinking into her lip until blood welled.

Kun Buyu chuckled. “I like that look. Fierce. Like a little lion. You must have many questions—why I never acknowledged you, why I left you to such a fate?”

She said nothing, her silence sharper than any words.

“You cannot blame me,” Kun Buyu sighed. “Blame instead the curse of the Twin Lotus.”

It was a cruel curse. Long ago, the Kun clan had once produced twin heirs. Brothers who fought endlessly for power, nearly dragging the clan into ruin. From then on, the rule had been: one child only.

There was another reason too—one tied to the illusions they practiced. Their art carried a fatal destiny: kin will kill kin. Blood siblings would always turn on each other, dragging the clan to destruction. To avoid this fate, any extra child had to be eliminated.

Like two buds on a single lotus, they would fight for sustenance until both withered. Thus the Kun family clung to the law of “only one.”

Twelve years ago, Wan Xuexin bore twins—a girl first, then a boy.

By the rules, one had to die. And since the position of Grand Priest had always passed through men, the girl was the one to be discarded. Kun Buyu lifted her in his arms to carry out the deed—

But Wan Xuexin, weak from labor, fell to her knees.

“She need not die!” she begged. “Our ancestor Kun Shoujin also bore twins. One was raised at home, the other sent away among commoners. They never met, never knew each other’s bloodline, never studied illusion. In that way, the curse was broken!”

Kun Buyu’s heart wavered. At last, he relented. He gave the newborn to Wan Xuexin, who passed her to her elder brother. The child was named Wan Ling, raised as his daughter.

Thus Wan Ling escaped death. But though she lived, her station plummeted. From a daughter of nobility, she became a household slave.

All her life, Wan Ling had believed Wan Xuexin’s kindness was no more than an aunt’s affection. She never imagined—the woman was her true mother.