The syndicate called itself the Silken Barter Guild.
Officially, it was a merchant coalition—artisans, traders, apothecaries. But anyone who'd survived the Fractured Era knew the truth: it was a silk veil drawn over blades. A front for the Accord's remaining inner circle. Rebuilding. Reconnecting. Re-arming.
Their gathering point was a ruined pavilion outside the township of Dongjin, where faded scrolls of prosperity still hung from rotting archways.
Ji Haneul arrived before dawn.
He didn't enter through the front.
He came through the mist.
—
There were twelve tents.
Guards posted on every corner—hired blades, former disciples of sects no longer acknowledged. Their qi was polished but blunt. Dangerous to the weak. Loud to the wise.
Haneul moved between them like fog.
One man yawned beside a brazier, blade half-drawn.
He never saw the palm strike that cut his breath mid-exhale. Haneul caught the sword before it hit the ground. Buried it into the snow.
Another stood outside the largest tent, arms crossed, eyes closed in false meditation.
He opened them too late.
Haneul's sword moved in a single arc—clean, not lethal. The man dropped, unconscious, windpipe sealed with precision.
By the time the guards noticed the absence, it was already too late.
Haneul stood in the middle of the camp.
Face bare.
Blade unwrapped.
His presence fell like snowfall—quiet, cold, absolute.
"Who speaks for the Guild?" he asked.
The merchants spilled from their tents.
Some fled. Some stood firm. A few reached for hidden weapons.
One—a man draped in crimson-trimmed robes—stepped forward, angered but cautious.
"I do. This is sovereign ground. The Accord still holds—"
His words froze.
Haneul's eyes met his.
And in them, he saw it:
Not hatred.
Not fury.
But stillness. Measured and ancient.
"We're not your enemies," the man tried again. "We only trade—"
"You trade in names," Haneul said. "In maps. In silence bought and sold."
A blade began to draw from a scabbard.
Haneul moved.
Time caught its breath.
Three figures dropped—one disarmed, two disabled.
No death.
Just severance.
The leader stepped back.
"This is madness!"
"This is mercy."
Haneul's sword lowered.
"You will disband. You will destroy your records. You will vanish. If I hear of the Guild again—anywhere—"
He sheathed his sword.
"—then we speak a final time."
The man opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Ji Haneul turned and walked from the camp.
Behind him, not a word was spoken.
The snow began to fall again.
—
Far above, on a hill beyond sight, a watcher lowered his spyglass.
A Hao Sect scout.
He whistled softly, then tapped a hawk-feather signal into a leather scroll.
Black-robed swordsman. No blood. Guild broken.
He hesitated.
Then added:
Possible ally. Or ghost.
He sent the message into the wind.
And wondered which it was.