Devil Mask Master

02. Big Plan

There was the sharp sound of something falling from a great height. A shadow rolled down violently, scattering petals across a crimson sea. A young man dressed entirely in black tumbled among a carpet of blood-red flowers, the blossoms glowing faintly golden under the embrace of the afternoon sun.

His chest rose and fell rapidly. The young man opened his eyes with a start, breath uneven, skin damp as if he had just awakened from a nightmare. His lips parted and he muttered in disbelief, “It turned out to be just a dream!”

Realizing this, relief flickered across his pale face. He pushed himself up slowly, brushing the petals that clung to his sleeves. “I must have dozed off without realizing it,” he sighed, voice low, tinged with a wry smile.

Raising his head, he gazed at the sky. The day was already tilting toward dusk, the sun sinking beyond the treetops, painting the clouds in shades of orange and violet. He straightened his posture with measured grace, one hand tucked naturally behind his slender waist.

His long hair, black as midnight silk, streamed in the breeze, glinting faintly under the last rays of daylight. The dark robe he wore—woven from fabric as deep as the night—flapped softly against his body in rhythm with the wind that swept through the forest. At his waist, tied firmly with a belt, hung a black mask of light metal, etched with intricate carvings. It was no ordinary mask, but a mark of distinction—an emblem of a feared group that moved unseen through the Jianghu.

The young man stood amidst a vast meadow of red spider lilies, also called equinox flowers. Thousands upon thousands of blossoms swayed like a crimson tide, their petals sharp and alluring, blooming in perfect unison. They stretched from the foot of one cliff to the opposite ridge, forming a field so vivid it seemed painted by blood itself. In the midst of such a macabre beauty, the youth looked like a phantom ruler who had descended to claim the land of the dead.

It was clear he was not here by chance. His posture, his stillness—he was waiting for someone. And though the wind of the Forest of a Thousand Nights was biting cold, he endured it with ease, his expression calm, his eyes sharp.

Not long after, a shadow flickered from above. A figure leapt down from the tall trees with movements light and precise, as if the wind itself carried her descent. Her landing barely disturbed the flowers, her body moving like paper drifting silently to the ground.

A woman appeared, her attire as black as his, her long hair tied neatly in a ponytail. She fell to one knee behind the young man, her right hand clenched into a fist and pressed against her left palm, a salute born of loyalty and discipline.

Without turning, the young man’s voice came—low, steady, commanding. “Ah Wei, how are the preparations?”

“Report, Chief. All arrangements are complete. The brothers are awaiting your command.” The woman, Qing Wei, answered firmly, her head still bowed, posture unwavering.

The man’s lips curved slightly. His black hanfu rippled as he shifted, revealing the faint outline of twin swords strapped across his back. His eyes glimmered with a light that could cut through the dark. “Good. Tonight we move on the Guo Jin Family residence. By the time the banquet begins, we will already be inside.”

“Understood, Chief!” Qing Wei remained kneeling, her voice firm, like steel forged in fire.

“Rise, Ah Wei,” the young man ordered, stepping slowly through the field of equinox flowers, each of his steps carrying both elegance and suppressed excitement.

“Thank you, Chief!” Qing Wei stood swiftly and followed her master, her presence silent, like a shadow bound to his back.

“Our targets this time are the Shen Family and the Yu Family,” the young man continued, his voice low but carrying a weight that left no room for doubt. “Both are formidable, each with skilled martial practitioners. We cannot underestimate them.”

This man was none other than Qing Yuan, leader of the Demon Mask Group—the shadow organization rooted deep within the Forest of a Thousand Nights. To the outside world, he was also known as Yang Yuan, a name whispered with both fear and respect.

“Yes, Chief!” Qing Wei’s reply was sharp, unhesitating.

Qing Yuan suddenly stopped walking. His gaze, sharp as the edge of a blade, turned to the girl behind him. “And remember, outside this forest, never call me Qing. Call me Yang Yuan. That is an order.”

Qing Wei halted instantly. “Yes, Chief,” she answered, her tone once again filled with obedience, as though carved into her very bones.

Her loyalty was absolute. If her master ordered her death this very moment, she would carry it out without hesitation, without regret. Such was the nature of a shadow guard.

“Ah Wei, Ah Wei… why is it that I always feel bored hearing your voice?” Qing Yuan’s lips twitched, his handsome face clouded with faint irritation. “Every time I speak, you simply agree. Do you have no other words in that mouth of yours?”

“Forgive me, Chief. Ah Wei does not understand what the Chief is implying,” she said innocently, her brows slightly knitted as if the concept itself was foreign to her.

Qing Wei had been raised for one purpose. From the age of a child, she was taken under the care of Qing Fuyu and trained relentlessly to become a shadow guard of the Qing family. Their duty was singular: protect their master and eliminate any threat that dared approach. Personal feelings, ambitions, desires—all were stripped away. They were sharpened into tools, living blades that thought of nothing but duty.

“Of course you wouldn’t understand!” Qing Yuan chuckled bitterly, his annoyance softening into something closer to resignation. With a sudden playful gesture, he extended a finger and poked the tip of her nose. “When have you ever understood anything? You’re always the same—boring and predictable!”

Startled, Qing Wei flinched back instinctively, dodging the light flick. “Ah Wei may not understand much else… but Ah Wei understands one thing: to aid and protect Young Master, our leader.”

“You’re hopeless!” Qing Yuan grumbled, his voice half-exasperated, half-amused. He turned abruptly, striding forward with long, confident steps.

Without hesitation, Qing Wei followed, her expression calm, her mind utterly untroubled by her master’s words.

Together, they advanced toward the edge of the crimson field. Before them lay the path into the heart of their great design.

This was no ordinary operation. It was the culmination of weeks of careful planning, of shadows moving unseen, of whispers exchanged in the dead of night. It was a grand plan that would rattle the jungles of the Jianghu itself, shaking the balance of power and carving a new name into the annals of fear.

For Qing Yuan, this plan was more than a mission. It was the key to a transformation, one that would alter not just his destiny, but the fate of countless others. Tonight, the Demon Mask Group would set into motion a storm that none could stop.

And from the sea of red spider lilies, death itself would bloom.