Page 92 of The Wind Dancer
“Have the fighters assembled?” Lin Jiyun slowly stuck the incense into the bronze censer.
“Yes, elder.”
The others began to move behind her.
Kon, her adopted son, was as massive as a mountain, his arms scarred from countless fights. He had earned his nickname, the Crimson Fists. He said little and just killed. And his Tong was the same.
Chu, her youngest, was as thin as a shadow, with eyes that never showed fear. She was the Shadow of the Autumn Leaf. A woman who knew how to get in and out of a house without leaving a trace. Except for the corpses. She might have been a follower of the terrible teachings from the lands beyond, but she was a faithful daughter, and at her mother’s first call, her disciples and followers brought death.
“They thought that we had forgotten, that no one would take revenge, but Heaven is merciful,” Lin Jiyun whispered.
She turned around.
In the light of the oil lamps, her face looked like it had been carved from old bone — sharp cheekbones, thin lips, and gray hair pulled back in a tight bun. Nothing unnecessary or soft about her.
“But we haven’t forgotten. Come to me, children of my blood and spirit.”
They formed a circle.
Zhao, as the youngest, was the first to approach the altar. He took a wide blade, ran it across his palm, and dripped blood into a bowl of rice wine.
“Blood for blood.”
Kon followed. His strike was sharp, deep. Thick red blood gushed out.
“Pain for pain.” It might not have the blood of her ancestors, but it had their spirit. For decades, he proved his loyalty by killing enemies in the name of his adopted mother, who had saved him.
Chu was in no hurry. Her movements were surgically precise. She cut her skin without a sound.
“Ashes for ashes.”
Lin Jiyun took the bowl. She lifted it to her lips and took a sip. She tasted warm, metallic blood. Like it had that night.
“Revenge for revenge.”
She handed the cup to her grandson, who took a sip and handed it to his uncle, who passed it to Chu as well. The circle closed.
“Feng Lao informed me where to strike,” Lin Jiyun said. “Leave no survivors.” She gave the order in the same tone as the islander had.
Kon laughed hoarsely. He loved a good fight, and his studded gloves were always prepared to spill blood.
Chu bowed her head. “How would you like them to die, mother?”
Lin Jiyun looked at the ancestral nameplates.
“Slowly.”
Zhao smiled. His smile was like the unsettling murals in the southern jungles.
“And the city?”
“Let them see. Let them know.”
Kon cracked his knuckles.
“Their hands reached for something that didn’t belong to them.”
“So they’ll lose those hands,” Lin Jiyun finished.
