Frost and snow thicken into mist;
the constellations fall silent.
The Liu family’s people silently infiltrate the perimeter of the abandoned warehouse complex.

Father Liu, wrapped in a dark-patterned fox-fur cloak, crouches in a half-kneel atop an old tea crate and unfolds a yellowed storage map.

Moonlight spills through a crack in the wall,
lighting up the paper crowded with warehouse numbers and hidden ways.

His hand rests against the lower corner of the map, the thumb working back and forth along the crease, his gaze sharp as a blade.

“At the southeastern edge of the warehouse district, there’s an abandoned tea path,” he says.

“Brush grows thick alongside it, the terrain rising and falling—ideal for ambushing convoys and positioning backup personnel.”

“The wind blows outward. Sound is unlikely to carry in.
Staying there makes them less likely to be detected.”

His index finger taps several red-circled marks on the map.

“These are all Pu’er storage sites—cold, ventilated, and well-suited for concealment.”

“Circle in from here. Two side doors, an old well, and a loading ramp—four entry points in total.
All allow for a quiet entry.”

He looks up.
His gaze sweeps over them, steady.

“Split into four teams. Each team stays on one entrance.
The approach must be no less than thirty zhang.”

“After pressing in, lie low along the treeline.
When the time comes, strike together.”

He folds the map and rises, his sleeve brushing loose several mold-dried tea leaves.

“Once the person is found, sound the flute.
Anyone who hears it pulls out at once—no one stays to fight.”

Turning, he looks toward the parked flatbed wagon.
The carter lifts the canvas cover, revealing tightly bound gold-transport chests.

Inside, bundles of high-denomination notes lie bound and stacked.
The seals are new, yet the paper has yellowed—
sixty percent are forged replicas of old notes;
the rest are tainted funds the Liu family uses to launder their accounts.

These funds have no owner and no name on the books,
yet they are enough to stir envy and temptation.

“Each person takes two bundles.
If you run into the enemy, scatter the money.
Better to lose the money than to lose the advantage.”

His tone is restrained, yet all four teams focus at once.

No one asks why.
They all understand:
this method leaves the enemy torn between greed and distraction—
and in that moment, they miss the killing blow.

Father Liu unfastens the latch and finds Yun Cangyue curled into one corner of the gold-transport chest.

Curled in a soft blanket, she lies with her chest and abdomen rising and falling heavily,
like the skin of an old drum that will no longer hold.

She scrabbles with her claws, trying to climb out,
only to slip back again and again,
her tail tightly hooked against the side of the chest.

Father Liu lets out a quiet sigh.

“I know you don’t trust outsiders—
you wouldn’t even let the carter handle you.”

He reaches in and lifts the silver-gray form out,
setting her gently onto a brazier blanket prepared nearby,
then turns back to the carter and says:

“Take good care of her. This rabbit is the linchpin.”

As he turns away, he removes his cloak
and lays it over her.

A glance confirms the combat teams already in position by group,
without a single sound beneath their feet.

He draws a short flute, no thicker than a finger joint, from his side
and lightly shakes it twice.

“Listen carefully. If you hear the flute, everyone withdraws.”

“After the rescue, no matter how many you kill, you regroup immediately.”

“If there’s no flute—”

“Then so be it.”

“A-Sheng, A-Quan—leave the horses to you.”

With everything arranged, he casts one last glance toward the darkened corner,
where a small furred shape still crouches, eyes fixed and unblinking on the warehouse doors.

“Wait for us to bring her back.”

The words fall.
Fox fur ripples, spilling like night across the ground.

In an instant, the figures vanish soundlessly into the deep forest of the tea warehouses.

Only the tremor of snow grains settling onto the ground remains,
like the forewarning of a soundless thunderstorm.

Night lies woven, faint snowlight tracing the outlines of the abandoned warehouses in the distance.

As the appointed hour draws near, Father Liu leans against the parapet on the north side of the tea warehouse, his gaze sweeping the four sides.

The other three teams have already slipped into position at their assigned entry points,
scattered in concealment behind old dye vats, among fallen stone pillars, or beside the dry wells along the warehouse edges,
their footing steady as stone.

Snow-laden wind pours in from outside the warehouses.
The appointed hour has arrived.

From all four directions, the hidden teams slip in like silhouettes,
their movement so swift it is as though the night itself has split open.

One team barely clears the wall when footsteps and coughing rise from the inner yard.

The lead man snaps his hand out, flinging silver notes into the air—
the corners of the aged paper spinning and fluttering overhead.

“Who’s there?!”

A kidnapper at the warehouse door has barely spoken when a red line opens across his throat.
The iron hook and the cut-off hiss of breath fall together.

Before the man can even fall, three of the others are already sprinting in from the side.

They hit with the wind at their backs—blades snapping in sequence: throats, wrists, knees.
If one cut doesn’t take, they cut again—three places in rapid succession, without a pause.

At the same moment, dull impacts echo from all sides.
The Liu family’s men speak not a word—
hands lift and blades fall, every strike aimed at a vital point,
fast, ruthless, precise, without a trace of hesitation.

The third group smashes through the southern door.
As they vault a heap of discarded cloth, a faint sound stirs behind one of the dye-stained walls.

They close in at a quick pace.
One man reaches up and tears down the hanging cloth,
revealing a small door hidden in the corner.

A tattered weaver’s ledger hangs from the door.
The door itself is bolted shut,
like a small storeroom abandoned long ago.

A blade cuts across the latch.
The inner door is burst open, and behind a pile of clutter, a head of gold hair—

The sound startles the youth huddled in the corner inside.
Seeing the men surge in, he tries to cry out—
but his voice is cut off before it can break free.

The youth stumbles and lunges toward the wall,
collapsing before he can reach even the edge of the hostage.

“We’ve found her!”

The shout rings out—and in the same instant,
the short flute sounds, cutting through the night
like an arrow loosed from the bowstring.

Once the retreat signal is given, the two teams still engaged break away at once,
each withdrawing along their prearranged routes,
leaving only faint traces of lingering warmth and blood
drifting among the broken tiles of the dye works.

All of it lasts no longer than a candle’s tear just spent,
or ink on an inkstone barely dry.

“Ambush!”

Only then do the kidnappers outside react.
In their panic, they grab their blades and rush in,
to find their own men sprawled dead across the steps.

One man tries to give chase,
only to be struck in the throat by hidden archers outside the door,
collapsing, coughing blood.

Silver notes lie scattered across the ground, flipping in the cold wind,
intermingled with the bodies—real and false indistinguishable.

The Liu family’s men encounter resistance along the way,
but they are well trained—
falling back while holding the line,
keeping the enemy at bay behind them.

Just as everything is nearly complete—

“You dare lay a hand on my brother?!”

A roar erupts from a crack in the warehouse wall.
The kidnapper leader rips through the pile of dyed cloth and bursts out,
eyes bloodshot, a slender arrow sliding free from his sleeve—

“You Liu wretches!! Die—”

The action comes almost in the same instant as the shout.

As his cuff lifts,
Yun Cangyue’s fur bristles all over.

She has lain motionless in the shadow beside the cart from beginning to end, her eyes never leaving the warehouse door.

The scar slashing across his left brow,
the angle of his raised cuff,
the killing intent suddenly thickening in the air—
all of it pushes her instinct to the edge.

A cold glint flashes.
Her heartbeat cuts out for a beat. (Click to vote)

She bites down on the ground and forces her right hind leg up,
blood flinging out in shards of stars.

Her forepaws claw hard into the mud for leverage;
even the fractured left paw forces out half a step.

“Urr—!”

A low growl churns in her throat,
ears pricked to the wind.

At the instant the arrow from his sleeve tears through the air,
her leap nearly explodes,
like a wild horse breaking its reins.

The silver-gray form slams heavily into Liu Xiyu’s chest,
knocking her to the ground.

In the next instant,
a sleeve-arrow buries itself into the old locust tree behind the cart,
driven deep into the wood,
its tail still trembling.

And she—
sprawled on the ground,
blood seeping from mouth and nose,
her silver fur soaked dark red.

Like a rag.
Motionless.

Liu Xiyu hurriedly scoops the silver bundle into her arms.
The fur in her embrace is soaked and warm,
no longer clear whether it is meltwater from the snow or threads of blood.

She stares blankly at the tips of the rabbit’s ears in her embrace,
still holding the curve she had smoothed into place
just yesterday morning.

Why… is it you again?

In that instant, countless images flash through her mind—

the frantic flight through dark alleys,
blood streaked across tea dregs on the ground,
the silent claw tips reaching out in a dim warehouse.

“A… Yue…”

The name trembles as it forces its way out,
even she cannot tell
whether it is regret, terror, or a plea.

Father Liu’s expression is iron-dark, like snow under a storm,
yet his voice remains steady as he speaks.

“Mount up—now!”

Liu Xiyu clutches the silver bundle close in her arms, holding it to her breast and shielding it at her side.

She keeps it out of the wind and keeps the jolting to a minimum, not even daring to let her breathing grow too heavy.

The silver fur is soaked through, clinging to her palms, leaving behind a heat that seeps and lingers— unnaturally hot, hot beyond what it should be.

“Faster.”

Father Liu’s voice is low, yet carries an urgency that brooks no refusal.

Hooves pound, wind cuts across their faces. No one looks back.

They tear through the night snow, racing toward the Liu estate, their figures soon swallowed by the boundless dusk.