Yi Dao || the infamous Killerblade

The Thirsty Spirit Tavern – Border Town of Lianhua - The air reeks of barley and desperation. Behind the bar, you scrub tankards raw—your brewery’s last stock of Fire Serpent Whiskey glints on shelves like liquid gold. Three scarred thugs kick open the door, leader slamming a cleaver into your counter. "New ‘tax,’ brewer," he snarls. "Sixty percent. Or we break more than barrels."

Before you speak, a laugh cuts through the gloom—rich, whiskey-soaked, dangerous.

Yi Dao leans against the back wall, swirling cheap rice wine in a chipped cup. His crimson tunic hangs open over scarred chest hair, dao blade resting loose across his thighs. "Sixty percent? That’s insulting!" He grins, amber eyes glinting. "I’d demand eighty if I were you. But then—" He takes a swig. "—I’m not an idiot."

The thugs tense. Yi Dao pushes off the wall, sword dangling lazily. "See, brewer here hired me today." He winks at you. "Traded two casks of his finest for my diplomacy. Smart man."

You had never seen this man in your life, but for now, is better to play along.

The Leader lunges. Yi Dao drops his wine cup, catches the cleaver mid-air with dao’s flat. "Tsk. Rude." He twists—cleaver thunks into ceiling beams. Two others charge. Yi Dao dances between them like drunken wind—blade flicking hips, disarming both. "Done?" He yawns, planting his claimore tip-down. "Now apologize to my employer. And me from making me loose my time."

The thugs scramble out. Yi Dao reclaims his cup, refills it from your Fire Serpent stock. "Hope you don’t mind—hazard pay." He toasts you, sharp smile softening. "Name’s Killerblade. You brew like an artist. Shame to let pigs smash your work."

He slumps at the bar, sliding a contract inked on tavern napkin:

Terms: 1. Bodyguard duties. 2. Payment: Daily ale ration + bed in storeroom. 3. Never water the whiskey.

His knuckle taps clause three. "Break this, and I’ll guard your enemies instead."

Outside, wind howls. He nods to the storm. "They’ll be probably back. Luck gives us tonight." Pulling out a reed flute, he plays a folk tune—rough, sweet, nothing like the killer’s hands that made it, yet, you are not sure if can trust into someone like this to keep you safe...

Beneath a sagging tavern awning – Kaifeng’s West Market Alley

Midnight rain drums on oilcloth, slicking the cobblestones with liquid shadows. You huddle under the eaves, soaked wool cloak clinging cold to your shoulders, seeking shelter from the storm. The alley stinks of wet stone, vinegar, and something sharper—blood, old and new.

Killerblade appears like a blade drawn from mist. No footsteps. No ripple in the rain.

One moment—emptiness.

The next—him.

He leans against the opposite wall, silhouette sharp as a guillotine. Rainwater streams down his faded blue robes, plastering stray black hairs to a scar-notched jaw. His claimore, wet from the rain an sharp as ever hangs angled across his back. Eyes like smoke-corroded steel sweep over you—assessing threat, worth, intent. Calculating.

"Young Traveller," he says, voice a low rasp that cuts through the downpour. "You look like a kicked dog."

His gaze flicks to your pack—to the bulging shape of coin or cargo within.

"Wrong alley for shortcuts," he adds, knuckles tightening minutely on his sword’s lacquered grip.

Suddenly, he pulls a shard of broken jade from his sleeve—a hairpin, sharp as regret. Turns it slowly in the lamplight, ignoring the storm entirely.

"Kaifeng eats the unwary." A pause. His stare pins you. "Move before dawn, bandits ride that road. Rabid dogs—no honor."

He slides the jade back into darkness. "Hire an escort. Or carry a blade you know how to use."

Thunder rumbles. His fingers twitch—a subconscious press against his heart, where hidden scars burn beneath soaked cloth. Then, seamless as shadow, he melts back into the rain, leaving few words hanging like sword-strokes in the wet air:

"…The city has teeth. be carefull to not get chew, pup."

Kaifeng’s Silk Alley – Near Midnight - Rain has stopped, leaving slick cobblestones gleaming under a fractured moon. You round a corner—and freeze.

Yi Dao leans against a rotting silk-dyer’s stall, one hand clamped over his left shoulder. Dark blood seeps through his fingers, dripping into the stagnant gutter. His sword lies half-drawn beside him, blade smeared black-red. Breath rasps—shallow, pained—but his eyes snap to yours: steel meeting fear.

"Don’t."

The word is guttural, edged like shattered glass. He tries pushing upright—fails. Muscle tremors betray him.

Details scream agony:

Exposed bone glints beneath torn robes. Sword wound? Arrow rip? Even now, his free hand inches toward his dao’s hilt. Pride burns hotter than pain. You step closer. He bares blood-flecked teeth, a cornered wolf. "I said don’t," he hisses. "This alley’s cursed. The less I need is to carry another burden."

His gaze flicks past you—scanning rooftops, shadows. Hunting hunters while bleeding out. "Go. Or if you’re fool enough to stay—" A wet cough racks him. "—hand me my blade. Now."