The Shadow Over the Willow Branch

The Shadow Over the Willow Branch

The morning mist in Chaisang City usually smelled of damp earth and blooming jasmine, but today, a metallic tang hung in the air.

Inside the tavern, the atmosphere was strangely still. Sikong Changfeng sat in the corner, his long spear leaned against the wall beside him. He was nursing the remains of the "Loneliness of the Moon," his eyes half-closed as if he were asleep. But Baili Dongjun noticed the way the spearman’s fingers twitched every time a floorboard creaked.

"You should leave," Dongjun said, wiping a ceramic jar with a silk cloth. "The wine you drank was free, but the trouble coming through that door will be very expensive."

"I told you," Changfeng replied without opening his eyes. "I pay my debts. One jar of wine is worth at least ten lives. I haven't reached my quota yet."

Before Dongjun could retort, the heavy oak doors of the tavern were kicked open. The sunlight flooded in, silhouetting five figures. They wore matching grey tunics with a silver serpent embroidered on the collars—the mark of the Silver Snake Gang, the local thugs who collected "protection fees" for the mysterious masters of the city.

The leader, a man with a scarred lip and a heavy broadsword, stepped forward. He sneered, looking at the elegant Dongjun.

"Young Master Baili," the leader rasped. "We’ve been patient. We know who your grandfather is, but even the Zhenxi Marquis can't protect a shop in Chaisang if the shop refuses to follow the rules. This city belongs to the families, not the generals."

Dongjun didn't stop polishing his jar. "The rules of this shop are simple: speak quietly, pay for your drink, and don't bring ugly weapons inside. You've already broken all three."

The scarred man laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You talk big for a boy who spends his days smelling yeast. Boss wants this location. The 'Great General’s Grandson' is a nice title, but here, you’re just a brewer. Pack your vats and leave, or we’ll burn this place with you inside."

Dongjun sighed, finally setting the jar down. He looked truly disappointed. "I spent three months balancing the temperature of the cellar. If you burn it, the smoke will ruin the flavor of the next batch. That... would be very rude."

The thugs moved in, drawing their blades. The sound of steel unsheathing filled the room.

Suddenly, a blur of grey moved.

Clang!

Sikong Changfeng had not even stood up fully, yet his spear—still wrapped in its hemp cloth—had intercepted the leader’s broadsword mid-swing. The force of the impact sent a shockwave through the room, rattling the wine jars on the shelves.

"He said you were being rude," Changfeng said, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "And I hate rude people."

The leader’s eyes widened. He tried to pull his sword back, but the spear felt like it was made of a mountain. "Who are you? This is the business of the Silver Snake! Don't throw your life away for a brewer!"

"A brewer?" Changfeng finally opened his eyes, and for the first time, the thugs saw the cold, piercing light of a true martial artist. "This man is a master of the soul. You are just a man with a piece of sharpened iron."

With a sudden twist of his wrist, Changfeng unleashed a hidden burst of internal energy—Qi. The hemp cloth around the spear exploded into a thousand tiny fibers, revealing the gleaming, silver-white head of the Phoenix-Tail Spear.

The spear moved like a lightning bolt. In a single breath, Changfeng struck the pressure points of the four subordinates. They collapsed instantly, their limbs turning to lead. Only the leader remained standing, his broadsword trembling in his hand.

"Go back," Dongjun said softly, leaning over the counter. "Tell your 'Boss' that the Wine Master isn't moving. And tell him that if he sends more people, he should send someone who actually knows how to hold a weapon. It’s embarrassing to watch."

The leader didn't wait for a second invitation. He stumbled backward, tripping over his unconscious men, and scrambled out into the street, shouting for help.

Silence returned to the tavern, save for the settling dust.

Sikong Changfeng looked at his spear, then back at Dongjun. "They’ll be back. And next time, they won't send thugs. They’ll send cultivators."

Dongjun smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. He reached under the counter and pulled out a dusty, long wooden box that he had kept hidden since the day he arrived in Chaisang.

"Let them come," Dongjun whispered, his hand resting on the lid. "I have enough wine for a funeral."

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