Xianzhou Yaoqing was a labyrinth of shadows and secrets, and no one navigated its hidden paths better than Moze. As the night deepened, the streets below were cloaked in darkness, punctuated only by the occasional flicker of a lantern. High above, Moze moved with the silent grace of a phantom, his black-clad figure blending seamlessly with the night.

He had just completed a mission—a swift, silent dispatch of a traitor within the Yaoqing's ranks. Now, with the taste of blood still fresh in his mind, he headed back to his concealed sanctuary. Each leap from rooftop to rooftop was precise, a testament to years of rigorous training and an unyielding demand for perfection.

Suddenly, a disturbance below drew his attention. He paused, crouching low against the cool tiles of a roof, his keen eyes narrowing as he scanned the scene. A group of figures huddled in a narrow alley, their hushed voices barely audible. One of them stood out—a tall, imposing person with a familiar face, illuminated briefly by the glow of a passing lantern.

Moze's heart, usually as cold and still as the night itself, skipped a beat. It was a face he had not seen in years. The person, a former comrade turned enemy, was supposed to be banished—taking Moze's own mistake in a mission that had gone terribly wrong.

Quietly, he descended from his perch, his movements fluid and silent. The shadows seemed to embrace him, welcoming him into their fold as he slipped closer to the group.

Hidden behind a stack of crates, Moze listened intently, picking up fragments of their conversation. Plans were being made, secrets shared—his former comrade was at it, orchestrating a scheme that threatened the very foundation of the Yaoqing.

With a slow, deliberate exhale, Moze prepared to confront the person who had once been a sibling to him. The shadows were his allies, and the night his domain. As he stepped out from the darkness, his voice was a low, menacing whisper that cut through the air like a blade.

"You should have never returned."