The thirteenth time Manli let him go, she sneered, “The compassion of the righteous sects. What a dependable weakness.”
He slashed her shoulder with a backhanded stroke of his sword and said coldly, “A killer’s mercy is just as fatal a flaw.”
Over ten years, the young master of the assassins and the foremost disciple of the righteous path faced off thirty-seven times. Between their wounds and their reprieves, they had formed an unspoken understanding.
On the eve of their final battle, he received a secret letter bearing her name: “Tomorrow, I’ll miss by an inch. Take the chance to capture me.”
She missed as promised, but he ran her through the heart.
As she lay dying, he leaned close and whispered, trembling, “Your organization has been destroyed. Your mission as a spy is over.”
Smiling in a pool of blood, she wanted to tell him that the letter hadn’t come from her.
But when she opened her mouth, all that came out was blood, along with another bloodstained secret letter slipping from her sleeve: the killing order from his own sect.
