“Ghost-Fang of the Shattered Peaks”
The teahouse trembled as his jian met her shuang gou, sparks skittering like drunken fireflies. “Ten years,” she spat, her blade a silver blur, “and you still fight like a concussed mongoose.” The scent of oolong and blood hung thick. He grinned, teeth red—her last strike had grazed his ribs, just as he'd planned. Outside, monsoon winds howled through Kowloon's neon canyons. Her footwork faltered; the poison in her liuyedao finally working. “Should've checked your cup, mei mei,” he sighed, watching her knees buckle. The old master's parchment burned in his sleeve—one less secret in this wretched world. The rain began. Perfect for washing away corpses.