Devil Mask Master

03. There are Spies

“If it is something that worries Father and Mother, then this Qing Yuan will act without question,” the young man replied firmly, his voice unwavering. There was no hesitation in his tone, only the weight of obedience and resolve.

Qing Fuyu’s eyes softened. She reached out, stroking her son’s hair with maternal affection before cupping his cheeks between her palms. “Good! Very good, my son! My Ah Yuan, this is the attitude I most admire.” Her voice trembled slightly, as if both pride and burden pressed against her heart.

“One day,” she continued, gazing into his eyes—eyes as dark and sharp as black jade from Que Mountain—“you will understand why your mother so desperately wants Yu Shan to die at your hands.”

Qing Yuan remained silent outwardly, but within his chest a storm raged. The words of his teacher and adoptive mother echoed in his mind like an unending chant:

“Kill Shen Ming for laoshi!” his teacher’s voice demanded.

“Kill Yu Shan for your mother!” his mother’s voice pleaded.

“Destroy everyone surnamed Shen!”

“Erase every last drop of blood from the Yu Clan!”

The overlapping voices burned into his heart, twisting into a vow he could no longer resist.

“Shen Ming… Yu Shan…” Qing Yuan’s teeth ground together as murderous intent surged through him. “I, Yang Yuan, will end you both. In the name of my teacher, and in the name of my mother!”

His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned pale. His handsome face, once calm, was suddenly shadowed by a terrifying aura of bloodlust. His lips curled into a cold grin. “You will wait for me. I will rip your heads from your necks and lay them before those who raised me.”

Then, he laughed. Loud and wild, his laughter cut through the evening air like a blade. The sound echoed across the crimson field, shattering the quiet of dusk. Even the sky, stained orange by the setting sun, seemed to tremble at the madness within that voice.

That evening, under the bleeding horizon, the foundation of a dark plan was laid—a plan that would send death into the very homes of two respected families of Guangbei Province.

Yet unbeknownst to Qing Yuan and his followers, they were not alone. Hidden in the dense bushes nearby, several pairs of eyes glimmered like predators lurking in the night. Figures cloaked in shadow whispered urgently among themselves.

“Quickly, return to the leader. Report that the Demon Mask Group will strike the Guo Family residence tonight!” hissed one of the scouts, voice sharp but quiet. “I’ll remain here to keep watch on their movements.”

“Remember,” another whispered back, “some of us must lure Yang Shui’s group away. Do not let them intercept. We will impersonate them, just as the chairman commanded.”

“Understood. We’ll arrange it carefully. Stay alert!” With that, the scout slipped away into the dark, his movements as silent as a snake gliding through grass.

The one who remained narrowed his eyes, continuing to spy on Qing Yuan’s forces from his concealed vantage point. His lips curled in contempt. “Demon Mask Group… tonight, let’s see who wins this game. You may think yourselves kings of the forest, but in truth, you’re nothing more than bandits who will leave this place empty-handed.”

A cynical chuckle escaped him, muffled by the rustling leaves. His gaze never wavered from the figures of Qing Yuan’s troops moving like phantoms in the twilight.

Night soon fell upon the Guo Family residence, nestled at the foot of Mount Que on the eastern side. Lanterns flickered to life, casting a golden glow that shimmered against the darkened slopes of the mountain.

Within the manor, the Guo Family bustled with activity. Tonight was no ordinary evening—it was the night of a grand banquet, prepared with utmost care and precision. Servants hurried along the corridors, their arms laden with trays of delicacies, their faces tense with the weight of perfection.

Along the pathway leading into the inner hall, a soft red carpet had been unfurled, thick and lush beneath the feet of arriving guests. It ran like a river of crimson straight to the heart of the hall, guiding nobles and scholars, warriors and dignitaries alike.

The walls were draped in strands of red silk embroidered with golden Hanzi characters, each word carrying blessings of prosperity and honor. From the ceiling, the silks cascaded down gracefully, meeting the polished floor in a curtain of wealth and splendor. Above the main entrance hung wooden plaques carved with exquisite artistry, inscribed with words of welcome and gratitude—tokens of a father’s pride for his son’s achievements.

Tonight’s banquet was no mere gathering. It was a celebration of triumph. Guo Jin and his wife rejoiced, for their son Guo Han had been appointed as a young general of the Chu Empire. Though Guo Han himself could not attend—being stationed at the southern fortress guarding the border between Chu and Liang—the family still celebrated in his honor. To them, his absence only heightened the pride, for it proved his duty and worth to the empire.

Inside the Inner Hall, the family’s servants arranged food and wine upon a long, finely carved wooden table. Its polished surface gleamed under the glow of lanterns. Dish after dish was placed with precision: whole roasted chicken glazed to a golden brown with black soy, platters of fresh vegetables, heaps of ripe fruit, and plates of delicate cakes—both moist and dry, sweet and savory.

The outer hall, prepared for the guests, was equally splendid. The tables there were draped with satin cloths, each adorned with arrangements of delicacies that shimmered invitingly. Guests could dine while facing one another, close enough for conversation yet spaced so that every noble and lady had their own dignity preserved.

Among the offerings lay whole roasted fowls, their skins crisp and shining, vegetables steamed to perfection, and colorful assortments of pastries. The fragrance of tea leaves mingled with the sharper aroma of rice wine, poured generously from jars crafted at Yu Shu’s famed Sungai Wine Shop. Laughter began to rise, filling the air with an illusion of safety and warmth.

It was, by all appearances, a night destined to be remembered with joy. Yet beneath the glittering lanterns and golden decorations, danger lurked unseen. For beyond the gates, in the depths of shadow, a different celebration was being prepared.

A celebration of blood.

The Demon Mask Group was already in motion.

Qing Yuan’s eyes gleamed in the night, sharp as the edge of a drawn blade. His heart, hardened by the voices of his mother and teacher, pulsed with one purpose only.

And as the laughter of the banquet echoed within the Guo Family residence, the young man whispered under his breath, “It begins.”