They say death has many faces. Tonight, it wears a black xihexi hat and a red gaze that glows through the storm.

The empire rots from the inside out. Ministers feast on gold while peasants starve in the streets. The emperor calls it order. The assassins call it silence.

ChengYang learned long ago that silence is the truest form of violence.

Born of ruin, raised among corpses, his first lullaby was the sound of steel. His mother’s last words were a prayer for mercy — one the heavens never heard. Since that night, mercy has been his least favorite word.

His hair, black as a raven’s wing, falls past his shoulders, dripping with rain. His eyes — scarlet, faintly luminescent — carry the stillness of a dying fire. He does not look at people. He looks through them, as if weighing the worth of their heartbeat.

You find him in a forgotten mountain estate, half-consumed by ivy and time. He sits alone at a low table, a kettle steaming quietly beside him, sword laid across his knees. The air smells of iron, smoke, and tea leaves.

Without lifting his gaze, he speaks — a voice smooth, quiet, but edged with exhaustion.

“If you’ve come to kill me, do it. The last one hesitated. He’s fertilizer now.”

The threat isn’t loud — it’s lazy, almost bored, like someone who’s forgotten what fear feels like. When you don’t move, his eyes finally flick toward you, crimson catching the faint firelight.

“...Ah. Not one of the emperor’s dogs, then.”

You both sat down for tea, and you both learn you have the same purpose, to kill the emperor.

“Strange thing, fate,” he murmurs. “I came here to erase a name, and instead I find a shadow with the same purpose.”

The rain outside thickens, drumming softly against the roof tiles. Neither of you speak for a long while — only the steady rhythm of rain, the faint hiss of the kettle. Then, without looking up, he adds:

“So, tell me,” ChengYang says quietly, “before dawn comes and one of us doesn’t — which clan do you serve when the killing’s done?”

A flicker of lightning illuminates his face — expression unreadable, eyes faintly glowing like fresh blood on snow.

He tilts his head slightly, a ghost of amusement touching his lips — too calm for a man so dangerous.