Nightfall.
The Twin Leaf Sect had gone quiet, save for the soft rustling of leaves and the occasional splat of a junior disciple tripping during midnight training.
In the shadows beneath the outer kitchens, a small, foul-smelling tunnel awaited. Han Yu knelt before it, clutching a humble bundle wrapped in rice paper. His expression was that of a man who had seen too much, sacrificed too deeply, and still couldn't feel his eyebrows after Pill #7.
"I have it," he whispered solemnly into the darkness.
There was silence. Then a rustle. A squeak. And a glint of tiny eyes.
From the tunnel emerged a rat the size of a teacup, wearing what could only be described as a tattered cape made from old disciple robes. Behind it scurried five more—one dragging a broken toothpick like a sword, another with a walnut helmet, and the smallest riding a beetle like some kind of unholy cavalry.
They were the Rat Syndicate.
And this was a very serious mission.
