Chapter 1: Torn Page, Blood Pact

Thunder cracked over the rainy night. The Kyoto damp hung in the air like cold iron soaked through a man’s lungs, a suffocating weight he couldn’t cough up. Sogi Yagyu stood on the upper floor of the Yagyu Inn, a space perpetually cold and cluttered with stacks of old ledgers. His fingertips brushed a hairline crack in the wood—a fissure thin enough to slice through a beam. He didn’t speak. Instead, he used the faint flash of lightning through the window lattice to study the uneven shadow deep within the crack. After fifteen years as a veteran clerk at an Escort Agency, his instincts were sharper than any magic art: something was hidden here. And it was buried deep, old, and incredibly dangerous.

From below came the sharp *tok-tok* of wooden geta slapping the floorboards. The rhythm was urgent, accompanied by stifled, ragged breathing. It was Koyuki Yagyu, the temple administrator and the only relative in the Yagyu Family who still had her wits and the courage to face the old cases head-on. She burst through the door, soaking wet, hair disheveled, clutching a long wooden box wrapped tightly in oilcloth against her chest.

“Brother, they’re here.” Koyuki’s voice trembled. It wasn’t the cold that shook her; it was fear.

“Who?” Sogi didn’t turn around. His gaze remained locked on the hidden seam in the crossbeam.

“People from Ono Commercial. And that madman, Muso Ono.” Koyuki slammed the wooden box onto the dusty desk, her fingers white from the grip. “I found it behind the back wall of the Hokke-ji Temple scripture library. It bears the last seal Father applied before he vanished. The blood isn’t even dry yet—wait, no. It’s fresh.”

Sogi finally turned, his brow furrowed. He walked to the desk but didn’t open the box immediately. First, he unclipped the Fire Tinder from his waist, striking it gently to light a flame. The small fire danced, casting their shadows long and distorted across the walls.

“Open it, but don’t touch the papers inside.” Sogi commanded, his voice steady to the point of coldness.

With shaking hands, Koyuki unwrapped the oilcloth to reveal the rust-stained wooden box. She lifted the lid. Inside, there was no gold or silver—only a scroll of yellowed, curled mulberry bark paper and a broken section of a black ink brush stained with blood. Sogi pulled on his white cotton gloves and carefully unrolled the paper. It was fragile, the edges carbonized. Dense, tiny characters covered the surface, interrupted by sharp scratches from a blade and a smear of dried, dark red blood.

“This is... the Tang Sect Hidden Weapon Design Remnants left by our predecessors.” Sogi read the final line in a low voice, his pupils constricting.

Koyuki leaned in closer, her nose twitching almost imperceptibly. She pointed at a row of scrawled, large characters next to the bloodstain, her voice dry. “Brother, look here. ‘Iron Casket missing. Do not seek, do not ask. Bound by the Blood Pact, life and death shared.’ Father... what exactly did he take away with him?”

Sogi’s finger hovered above the bloodstain, refusing to touch it. He took a deep breath. The air was thick with the sour, fermented smell of ancient paper pulp, mixed with an indescribable, metallic tang.

“This isn’t a standard design blueprint.” Sogi pointed to a complex gear mechanism sketched in the center of the page, his frown deepening into a crease. “Tang Sect mechanisms rely on the Soul Lock. This structure isn’t designed to kill. It’s designed to seal. Look at the gear mesh angle. If you force it apart, it triggers an internal shockwave device. Father didn’t hide this to keep a secret. He hid it to stay alive.”

Koyuki gasped, stepping back half a step, nearly knocking over a tea cup on the desk. “How long have the Ono Commercial goons been after this thing? That old pervert, Muso Ono, supposedly dug up his own ancestral graves three times over searching for the ‘Yagyu Treasure’. If he knows this blueprint is in our hands...”

“He won’t know the blueprint is in my hands.” Sogi cut her off, his eyes sharp as blades. “This paper is bait. The real secret isn’t on the paper. It’s in the fibers of the paper.”

Koyuki’s eyes went wide, a mix of confusion and shock washing over her face.

Sogi picked up the bottom panel of the wooden box and retrieved a thin copper mirror from his back. He held the remnants near the Fire Tinder, not to burn them, but to use the light to inspect the texture through the paper. His movements were incredibly slow, steady, as if performing a precise surgical operation.

“Brother, what are you doing?” Koyuki bit her lower lip, tension making her jaw tight.

“Testing the paper.” Sogi didn’t look up, his voice flat and emotionless. “Ancient papermaking follows the rules of material, pulp, bark, and alkali. Standard mulberry paper should have a clear warp-and-weft pattern with coarse textures. But look closely at this tear here.”

He pointed to a jagged rip on the edge of the page. “The fibers here are tightly interwoven, with a distinct short-pile texture unique to paper mulberry. This type of paper only circulates at specific Canal Transport docks in the Jiangnan region. It’s usually reserved for royal secret archives or internal decrees from top-tier sects. You simply can’t make this quality of paper in Kyoto.”

Koyuki froze, whispering, “You’re saying... the place where Father hid the Iron Casket isn’t in Kyoto?”

“It’s not just ‘not in Kyoto’. It’s the opposite.” Sogi put the mirror down, his expression growing grave. “Look at the oxidation level of the ink. Standard pine soot ink in Kyoto’s humid climate penetrates deep into the fibers within ten years, forming black stains. But the blood-written characters here, though dried, still sit on the surface with an abnormal ‘grey-blue’ hue. This oxidation reaction only happens when Wolf Hair brush ink mixed with Cinnabar is exposed to a dry, high-altitude environment for a long time.”

Sogi stood up and walked to the window, pushing open the rotten shutter. Outside, the rain fell like a downpour. Lightning tore across the night sky, illuminating the majestic mountain contours surrounding the city of Kyoto.

“High altitude, dry, not Kyoto.” Sogi’s voice sounded fragmented in the wind. “Combining this with Escort Agency logistics records, only the Qin Mountains to the west or the deep Yun-Gui mountains to the south offer conditions for this kind of oxidation. And notice the corner of this hidden weapon design. There’s a tiny character ‘Yi’ (post) carved there, followed by a blurry number ‘Seven’.”

Koyuki pressed, urgent. “Seven? Seven stations? Or the seventh marker?”

“It’s code for the Route Seven Post Road.” Sogi turned around, a flash of resolve in his eyes. “The Yagyu Family handled the northern Canal Transport lines, but before Father disappeared, he was assigned to clear a ‘dead debt’ from the south. That debt involved a secret Imperial Guard warehouse transfer order that the court hadn’t yet made public. He disappeared because he discovered that an Iron Casket capable of overturning the martial world was hidden in that shipment.”

Before he finished, a dull thud came from downstairs. Something heavy shattered the threshold. Followed by chaotic footsteps and the screech of metal on stone.

“Don’t make a sound.” Sogi shoved Koyuki’s shoulder, pushing her into the shadows behind him.

Coarse boots stamped on the staircase, accompanied by the cloying, nauseating scent of perfume mixed with wet, cold blood. Sogi recognized the smell. It was sandalwood pellets, the signature scent Sawa Ono used to mask the lingering odor of corpse grease that clung to him constantly.

The footsteps stopped at the entrance to the upper floor. No knocking, no calling out. Just the creak of the door latch being violently snapped.

Sogi quickly stuffed the remnants into a hidden layer, took a deep breath, and turned to lean against the wall. Koyuki clamped her hands over her mouth and nose, her body rigid as stone.

The door swung open. A man in a black robe stood in the doorway. Sawa Ono. Forty years old, gaunt, with deep-set eyes and a professional, ice-cold smile at the corner of his mouth. Two death-suited enforcers with broadswords flanked him, rain dripping from their blades into a murky puddle on the floor.

“Master Yagyu.” Sawa’s voice was raspy, like sandpaper rubbing against sheet metal. “What a massive storm. Did you lock yourself in this attic just to take a good look at what kind of thing you actually are?”

Sogi didn’t move. He didn’t even bother to put on a respectful expression. He simply gave Sawa’s eyes a calm, searching look. There was no fear in it, only appraisal.

“Mr. Sawa visits in the dead of night without an invitation,” Sogi said slowly, his tone level. “The Yagyu Family runs a small inn, but when a guest arrives, tea is customary. It’s just that the rain is heavy tonight, and the tea is cold.”

Sawa ignored the subtle jab. He strode into the attic, his gaze sweeping over the desk like a hawk before settling on Sogi’s empty hands.

“The tea is cold, and your heart is too.” Sawa sneered. He pulled a black cloth from his robe and revealed a bloodstained jade pendant. It was the Yagyu Family’s hereditary token, now casually played with between his fingers. “I’ve received everything your father left behind. But one thing is missing. The ‘authentic’ scroll.”

“I’ve never seen the item you’re after.” Sogi looked Sawa dead in the eyes, yielding not an inch. “Mr. Sawa is a professional. You should know that the Yagyu Family’s rule is: the secrets of the dead are not for the living to hear, let alone steal. If you take one more step, I don’t mind letting the dust of this attic settle on the hems of your Ono Clan’s clothes.”

Sawa narrowed his eyes, letting his gaze linger on Sogi for a moment, seemingly gauging his confidence. Then he laughed—a dry, grating sound.

“Tough guy. Your father was the same, right up until he was buried in the frozen soil, his face still tight.” Sawa took a step forward, his boot crushing a stain of blood on the floor with a soft *shhh* sound. “But let me remind you, Master Yagyu. This isn’t the time for martial virtue. Lord Muso Ono has ordered that after tonight, any trace related to the Yagyu Family in Kyoto will be treated as ‘illegal loiterers’. You either hand over the remnants, or you become a grave goodie for that missing Iron Casket.”

From behind Sogi, Koyuki tugged gently at his sleeve. Her fingers were ice-cold.

Sogi glanced down at Koyuki, then raised his gaze back to the jade pendant in Sawa’s hand. The corner of his mouth twitched, a rare, calculating smile.

“Mr. Sawa, you’ve got one thing wrong.” Sogi spoke softly, his voice cutting clearly through the rain.

“Oh? What did I get wrong?” Sawa raised an eyebrow, flipping the jade pendant between his fingers.

“I’ve never seen the remnants.” Sogi corrected him coolly. “Because those are fakes. The real Tang Sect mechanism blueprints require the geographical coordinates of the Route Seven Post Road to decode. And the blood on the jade pendant you’re holding? It dried three years ago. It’s old blood. The true Blood Pact vanished into the Qin Mountains snowstorm along with the Iron Casket.”

Sawa’s smile froze on his face.

He stared into Sogi’s eyes, searching for a crack, but Sogi’s facial muscles remained tight, his expression solid as bedrock.

“You’re lying.” Sawa’s voice dropped, dripping with danger. “The Yagyu Family’s ancestral rule says: once the Blood Pact is issued, life and death are up to heaven. If you hadn’t found it, your father wouldn’t have disappeared.”

“Father disappeared because he was too smart, or too stupid.” Sogi stood up, slowly approaching the desk, each step calibrated to push against Sawa’s psychological defenses. “He calculated that you would come. He calculated that I would stay. Mr. Sawa, that madman behind you, Muso Ono, believes in fate, not logic. But he missed one detail—Yagyu Family escorts don’t just protect goods. They protect the ‘road’. And that road is now cut.”

Sawa’s eyes flickered, weighing whether this was a trap. Outside, thunder boomed again. Lightning nailed their shadows to the wall, two death deities facing off.

Sawa didn’t move. He just stared at Sogi, the jade pendant in his hand deforming under his grip.

“The road is cut?” Sawa asked, a hint of doubt creeping into his voice.

“If the road is cut, the connection is cut.” Sogi answered, his gaze moving past Sawa’s shoulder to the darkness swallowed by the rain outside. “As for whether I handed over the remnants, Mr. Sawa, you can ask yourself when you go back. But I can tell you that for the next three days, no matter which corner of Kyoto you hide in, you’ll face a ‘no such person found’ dead end. That’s the Yagyu Family rule. And that’s the price.”

Sawa was silent for a long time. Rain dripped from the hem of his robe, pooling into a small puddle that reflected the dim light inside the attic.

“Interesting.” Sawa finally spoke, the oppressive weight in his tone dissipating, replaced by the playful scrutiny of a predator examining prey. “The Yagyu Family’s brat still has a hidden hand up his sleeve. But Lord Muso doesn’t like hidden hands. He likes ‘answers’. Since you’ve cut the road, let’s see just how long your Yagyu Family can hold out.”

The game had only just begun.