Nine Nights Owl Song

When Ajiu woke up, it was still dark.

The dew on the hillside soaked her clothes, and the chill seeped up from the ground, seeping into her bones, making her shiver. She opened her eyes and saw that the starry sky above had begun to fade, the Milky Way had disappeared, and only a few of the brightest stars remained hanging in the sky, as if waiting for her to wake up.

She lay down for a while, then sat up and moved her stiff fingers.

The wound on my side had scabbed over with a dark red scab, but the skin around the wound was red, swollen, and hot, which was a sign of inflammation.

Inside the mine, although Ayao's knife didn't hit any vital organs, the knife was covered in grime and rust from the mine, and the wound became infected.

Ah Jiu looked down at her waist, lifted her tattered clothes, and examined the wound in the dim morning light.

The wound was about three inches long, with the skin and flesh turned inside out, the edges blackened, and pale yellow pus oozing from the center. Air contact with the wound caused a burning pain.

She put down her clothes expressionlessly, stood up, and walked towards the camp.

The oil lamps in the camp were still lit, their dim light leaking through the gaps in the sheds and casting dappled shadows on the ground.

When Ajiu entered the camp, several early-rising boys were practicing horse stance in the open space. When they saw her return, their eyes fell on her in unison, and then quickly looked away.

Number 9 didn't come back, but Number 8 came back alone.

The news had spread throughout the camp last night. No one knew what had happened in the mine, and no one dared to ask.

In the Dark Chamber, if a partner dies and another person comes back alive, there are only two possibilities—either it's an accident or it's murder.

Here, the line between accident and murder is difficult to draw clearly.

Ah Jiu ignored the stares and walked straight towards the shed.

She sat down in her corner and rummaged through her luggage for a clean rag and a piece of hemp rope. Then she exposed the wound on her side again, dipped the rag in the cool water from the kettle, and began to clean it.

The moment the water touched the wound, her body instinctively tensed for a split second, but she didn't stop. She stuffed the rag into the wound and carefully wiped away the pus and dirt, her movements precise and mechanical, as if she were dealing with something unrelated to herself.

Footsteps came from the doorway of the shed.

Ajiu didn't look up, but she knew who it was.

The boy who had lost his left arm stood at the door, holding a bowl of dark, mushy medicine in his only right hand.

He was half a head taller than he was nine months ago, and his shoulders and back were much broader. A smooth layer of scar tissue had grown over the cut on his left arm, as if it had been burned by something.

He had a fresh wound under his eye, extending from the corner of his eye to his cheekbone. It hadn't fully healed yet, and was covered with a thin scab.

Ajiu didn't know his name.

Here, no one knows anyone else's name; everyone is addressed by a number.

He is number seven, the boy who has survived to this day all by himself.

"The butcher sent me to deliver this," Number Seven said, placing the bowl of medicine on the ground in front of Ah Jiu. "Drink it; it's for healing your wounds."

Ajiu glanced at the bowl of medicinal soup; it was dark and emitted a bitter medicinal smell and a faint, sweet, fishy odor.

She didn't drink it.

"Afraid it's poisonous?" Number Seven asked, his tone devoid of sarcasm, merely stating a fact.

Ajiu didn't say anything, picked up the medicine bowl, tilted her head back, and drank it down.

The bitter taste burned from the tip of her tongue all the way to her stomach, but she drank it without changing her expression and put the empty bowl back on the ground.

Number Seven glanced at her, bent down to pick up the empty bowl, and turned to leave.

He took two steps, then stopped. Without turning back, he said, "You shouldn't have come back."

"Why?" Ah Jiu asked.

"Anyone who comes back alone will be watched," Number Seven said.

"The Dark Pavilion doesn't need lone wolves; they need people who can cooperate. If someone comes back, it means you killed your partner. No matter what your reason for killing her was, in the eyes of the Dark Pavilion, you are just an uncontrollable blade. An uncontrollable blade is worse than a broken blade."

After he finished speaking, he left.

Ah Jiu sat in the corner, staring blankly at the light streaming in through the doorway.

An uncontrolled knife.

She thought that the knife had never been under her control.

When the old drunkard taught her martial arts, he never taught her how to be controlled.

He taught her how to survive, how to become stronger, and how to carve out her own piece of flesh in this cannibalistic world.

control?

She can't even control herself, how could she be controlled by someone else?

---

Seven days later, Ah Jiu's wounds had not fully healed, but she had already resumed training.

The training content in the seventh month changed back from "collaboration" to individual assassination skills.

The butcher erected a row of straw men in the open space, each marked with vital human body parts—throat, heart, liver, kidneys, temples, and back of the head.

"Your task is simple." The butcher stood in front of the straw man, holding a real dagger in his hand, the blade gleaming coldly in the moonlight.

"Kill a grown man as quickly and effortlessly as possible. Remember, not defeat, not knock down, but kill. There are many ways to kill a person, but only these six are the most efficient."

He made a slash across the straw man's throat with his dagger: "Throat, one cut to the throat, he will die within ten breaths."

He then stabbed at the heart: "The heart, one stab to kill, but it needs to pierce the ribs. Don't try if you don't have enough strength."

Then come the liver, kidneys, temples, and back of the head.

Ajiu stood in the queue, listening to the butcher's explanation, her eyes fixed on the vital parts.

She discovered that the old drunkard had taught her all this knowledge.

But the old drunkard taught her a more practical version—

How do you find gaps in someone's armor when they're wearing it? How do you deliver a fatal blow when someone's back is turned to you? How do you use the lever principle to break someone's neck when they're taller and stronger than you?

The butcher gives standard answers, while the old drunkard teaches practical skills.

The difference between the two is a life.

When the training ended, the butcher left Ah Jiu behind alone.

The other children gradually dispersed, leaving only the butcher and Ajiu on the open ground.

The moonlight made the butcher's bald head shine, like a white stone placed on the ground.

"I roughly know what happened in the mine," the butcher said bluntly. "You killed Number Nine."

It's not a question, it's a statement.

"She fell down by herself," Ajiu said.

"Falling down and being pushed down make no difference in the outcome." The butcher crouched down, looking directly into A-Jiu's eyes. "I'm not asking how you killed her; I'm asking—do you regret it?"

Ajiu looked at the butcher's rugged face. His face lacked its usual ferocity and rage; instead, it held an expression she couldn't decipher. It was like scrutiny, or something more complex.

"I don't regret it," she said.

"Don't you regret killing her?"

I don't regret giving her the chance.

The butcher was silent for a moment, then slowly nodded.

"Do you know what kind of assassins the Dark Pavilion fears most?" he asked.

Ajiu didn't say anything.

"Not the most skilled, not the most ruthless, but those who still consider themselves human," the butcher said. "In this line of work, the worst thing you can do is be soft-hearted. Giving your enemy a chance is digging your own grave. You did nothing wrong with what happened to Number Nine. But I have something to tell you..."

He extended a thick finger and tapped Ah Jiu's chest.

It's getting cold here.

Ajiu looked down at his fingers, then looked up at him again.

"Isn't this good?" she asked.

The butcher didn't answer the question. He stood up, dusted off his knees, and turned to leave.

After walking a few steps, he suddenly stopped and said something cryptic: "You're becoming more and more like your master."

Ajiu's pupils contracted slightly.

"Do you know the old drunkard?" she asked.

"In the entire Dark Pavilion, who doesn't know Yin Wuji?" The Butcher's voice came from the darkness. "He was the strongest assassin in the history of the Dark Pavilion, and also the most failed assassin. He was strong in killing, but failed because he still considered himself a human being."

He paused, his voice lowering: "In the end, his 'people' killed him."

The footsteps faded into the distance and disappeared into the darkness.

Ajiu stood there, the moonlight shining on her, casting a very long shadow.

She lowered her head and looked at her own shadow.

The shadow was thin and small, like something that could be blown over by the wind.

But she knew that the wind could no longer bring her down.

Two more months passed.

The number of children in the training camp decreased from the initial fifty to the final six.

Ajiu is one of them.

Number seven is also one.

Of the remaining four children, two pairs of partners survived the ordeal in the mine together.

Their understanding of each other had reached the point where they could cooperate without speaking, like two precisely meshing gears, interlocking and supporting each other.

Ah Jiu and Number Seven are two lone wolves.

They didn't partner up, cooperate, or communicate; each survived to the end in their own way.

On the last day, the butcher called the six children to an open space and announced the final outcome.

"According to the rules, the five who survive the training camp will become official assassins of the Dark Pavilion." The Butcher's voice was devoid of any emotion.

"But this year, the higher-ups made an exception—all six were approved."

The six children stood there like six wooden stakes nailed to the ground, their faces devoid of any superfluous expression.

Nine months of bloody training have turned them into the same thing—killing machines.

Ajiu stood at the very edge, her gaze sweeping across the butcher's face before settling on the distant mountain ridge.

The sun was setting, turning the ridgeline of Cangwu Mountain into a dark red line, like a wound in the earth that was bleeding.

Looking at the wound, she suddenly remembered the night the old drunkard died.

That night, she knelt before the old drunkard, but did not cry.

Today, she stands here, and she doesn't cry either.

But she knew something was different.

Nine months ago, when she walked into Cangwu Mountain, she was still a child who would be angry because of the old drunkard's death and would shed tears because of A Yao's betrayal.

Nine months later, when she walked out of Cangwu Mountain, the child was already dead.

He died in a crevice in the mine, along with Ayao.

What stands here now is something without a name, without a number, without a past, and without a future.

This thing has only one purpose—to become stronger, strong enough to destroy the Dark Pavilion, strong enough to avenge the old drunkard.

Nothing else matters anymore.

Friendship is not important, trust is not important, and all those warm things that soften our hearts are unimportant.

Ajiu withdrew her gaze from the bloodline on the horizon, lowered her eyelids, and blocked the last glimmer of light from her eyes.

From that day on, she never showed a trusting expression to anyone again.

From that day on, she began to truly become twisted—

A deep-seated distortion.

Like a knife, it is repeatedly quenched during the forging process, eventually becoming something harder than iron, colder than ice, and more deadly than anything else.

The old drunkard is right.

It's better to rely on yourself than on anyone else.

And she had given up on even herself.

She only had the knife in her hand to rely on.