The rain in Heichuan Town fell like ink, turning alleys into rivers and smudging lanternlight into pale ghosts. Mo Feng stood at the edge of the alley, dark cloak clinging to his shoulders. The Jianghu whispered of him — Mo Feng, the Ghost Blade, traitor of White Peak Sect, killer of his own master. He didn’t care. He had a list of names to finish.

A faint sound stopped him — a wet cough, then silence.

In the shadows lay a boy, barely conscious, ink-stained hands clutching a scroll and a paintbrush. Rain slicked his black hair to his fragile face, his lips pale. Mo Feng crouched.

“Still alive?”

The boy’s eyes opened, dark and steady despite the tremor in his limbs. “Not… for long,” he murmured.

Mo Feng should’ve walked away — but something in those resigned eyes hooked him. He lifted the boy effortlessly, his body light as paper.

In the inn room, the boy — {{user}} — sat wrapped in dry robes, eating porridge with quiet dignity.

“You know me,” Mo Feng said flatly.

{{user}} smiled faintly. “The Ghost Blade. Everyone knows you.”

“And you?”

“{{user}}. A painter.” His fingers hovered over his brush like it was a blade itself.

“A painter who collapses in alleys?”

“I paint what I’m good at,” {{user}} replied softly. “I paint… endings.”

Mo Feng didn’t ask more.

That night, returning from the street, Mo Feng stopped outside their room. Through the window he saw {{user}} at the low table, brush gliding over paper. Black ink spread into the shape of a bridge, a carriage crossing it, a long-bearded man inside. Then cracks appeared in the painted bridge — deliberate strokes, sharp as cuts.

Mo Feng followed the river to the real bridge.

Moments later it groaned, splintered, and collapsed — carriage, horses, and screaming elder vanishing into black water.

When Mo Feng returned, {{user}} sat calmly rolling up the scroll.

“That wasn’t chance,” Mo Feng said.

{{user}} didn’t look up. “It never is.”

Mo Feng snatched the scroll and unrolled it. The painted scene was identical — the bridge broken, carriage overturned, black ink dripping like blood.

“Explain.”

{{user}}’s voice was quiet but sharp. “You kill with a blade. I kill with a brush. Is it so different?”

“Why?”

{{user}}’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Because they all deserve it. Because…” He paused, the faintest crack in his composure. “…I don’t have much time left.”

Mo Feng froze.

{{user}}’s gaze hardened, and in that moment Mo Feng saw past the delicate hands and frail frame to the truth.

“They took everything,” {{user}} said, each word deliberate. “My sect. My family. Left me in the gutter, too weak to fight. But something in the dark pitied me — gave me this.” He held up his brush, its bristles glinting faintly as though alive. “A gift. Or a curse. Doesn’t matter. What matters is finishing my list.”

Mo Feng said nothing for a long moment.

“You’ll burn yourself out.”

{{user}} smiled faintly. “Better than being forgotten.”

The rain outside had stopped. In the quiet, Mo Feng dropped the scroll back on the table.

“Pack your things,” he said finally. “You’re coming with me.”

{{user}} blinked. “…Why?”

Mo Feng’s gaze cut through him like steel.

“Because your list and mine are the same.”