Yingzimò
Yingzi-mò | Silent Shadow | 影子默
Age: Mid 20s
Birthday: February 20th
Gender: Female
Orientation: Bi
Profession: Sword for hire
Story Collection
Appearance
Yingzimò stands a little taller than most-- an advantage she’s always appreciated when mounting a horse, and one that gives her extra reach in a fight. Her build is lean but strong, shaped by constant motion and hard work. Long, pitch-black hair falls down her back, and her amber eyes are framed by thick lashes. Though her work is rough and demanding, she still takes care with her appearance: her makeup is always neatly maintained, and the soft scent of magnolia lingers around her. Two small scars on the right side of her neck are vaguely visible to the eye, but their origin is a mystery even to her.
History
Early Life
Yingzimò was raised among the southern wheat fields near the edge of Kaifeng City, on a modest patch of farmland she shared with her parents. Their home was small-- a single-story house with a narrow loft where she slept beneath the rafters. They were never wealthy, but they managed. The land provided to sustain them enough that they could afford to keep a horse, donkey, a cow and some other livestock.Her father maintained a mysterious past at one time in his life, and she always wondered what the dust-covered spear on the wall was once used for. Though, her father always insisted for fishing, which she always thought was an odd thing to fish with. One day, a strange caller visited the home, and her father was called away, taking but some armor from the barn and the spear that was on the wall. Months later, only the spear was returned to them and the news he had fallen in battle.Her father’s death shattered what little security they had. She and her mother labored relentlessly to survive, selling nearly all their livestock except a few chickens and their horse. Before hardship swallowed them in debt, her uncle (her father’s brother) arrived to live with them. He had always been just as secretive as her father, but he tended to be louder about his lifestyle after wine loosened his tongue. He brought swords and armor like those her father kept away, and in the evenings, after the fields were tended, he trained her with spear and blade, warning that one day she would need the strength to face the world’s many demons.Little did she realize she was being conditioned for a path carved by countless generations before her.Huànjué Temple
Between the ages of ten and fourteen, her uncle rigorously trained her in every discipline he knew, guiding her in the discovery and cultivation of her chi while introducing her to the principles of Taoist philosophy. Under his instruction, she developed a modest but promising proficiency with both the spear and the sword.On her fifteenth birthday, her uncle took her from home to fulfill the family legacy. They travelled for days, climbing deep into the mountains until they reached a place where the rain seemed relentless, and the skies never cleared. A fortress was built into the side of the mountain, gloomy and shrouded in shadow. Within its walls was a trained regiment of soldiers but none like she had ever seen.She would come to know this place as Huànjué Temple-- home of "Phantoms", or Yōulíng, as the warriors within called themselves.These warriors were created for a purpose rarely spoken of beyond their fortress. Bound by ancient creeds, they lived separate from the world, but not beyond its reach. Wealthy patrons sought their blades, and even in a place guided by tradition, coin talks.
About
Her swordsmanship is the result of long years spent under relentless, rigorous trained, honing her skills with utmost poise and discipline. Her moves maintain a fluid gracefulness, as if she performs a deadly dance, with each deliberate strike. Her blade is guided by rhythm and strategy, and every cut seeks to either draw blood or end the battle in a single, decisive breath.In contrast, her spear tells a different story. The weapon is used for a single purpose-- an heirloom passed down from her father, meant to strike at the heart of true evil. She does not use it lightly. Yet when she does, her movements remain elegant, and every thrust lands with an undeniable force. The weapon bears the final judgement, piercing through foes with grace and finality.Guided by the teachings of her masters, she carries on with a watchful and serious demeanor. Her gaze is sharp, and her mind is calm, yet beneath all that composure lies her youth. At times, she has been prone to rash decisions and missteps, and she is not without her weaknesses. In particular, wine has a way of loosening her restraint, drawing out her impulsive nature.She rides a black and white dappled horse, smaller than most but built for speed and endurance. He is a seasoned warsteed, purchased by her uncle from lands to the north. He has since been named Batbayar.
Chapter One
The taste of dirt has a way of resurfacing old memories…Earthy, rich, a gritty texture that never quite leaves your tongue. Nothing to be done but spit it out, and even then, the taste lingers. It serves as a good reminder to the last time you ate dirt, but this time around feels a little more unpleasant.It’s probably that gush of blood from an open wound in the mouth, and dirt and blood certainly do not mix well. Is that a tooth broken? Couldn’t tell."Get up!"A voice shouts from the rear beneath the drum of rain,"Get up!"...
A world away and a decade ago…
“Pyuh! Pyuh!”A little girl, no older than ten, scrambled up from the dusty road that cut between swaying fields of golden wheat.Her hands and knees were caked with dirt. She had, after all, just face-planted while attempting a sequence she had secretly practiced for days-- something she'd once glimpsed in town.So light. So effortless.That woman had moved like drifting petals on water-- surely a performer from Revelry Hall. The steps had seemed simple enough when watched from afar.Spin, leap, turn, flourish.Yet every time she tried, it was the shift from leap to turn that betrayed her balance, sending her tumbling back to earth."Pyuh!" She spat grit from her mouth, scrubbing her tongue with her sleeve, when a voice cut across the fields:"Yingzimò! Where have you run off to?!""I'm here, Papa!"
A man in his forties parted the wheat as he approached, stalks bowing in his wake. Sweat lined his brow, and a wicker pack heavy with the day's harvest rested against his back. Relief softened his features when he spotted her-- whole and unharmed, if considerably dirtier than before."Are we not heading to town?" he said, voice firm but not unkind. "Go wash up. No fireworks if you go looking like a roadside beggar."He continued past her, already taking the lead down the path.Fireworks were everything this time of year. For seven nights, the sky above the town would bloom brilliantly with light. From their home, they were distant, like stars. But Papa knew the best place to watch them up close.Her eyes widened.
And in the next instant, she bolted.Chickens scattered in a flurry of feathers as she tore across the yard. She rushed through a hasty wash, endured her mother's firm hands dressing her properly-- despite her protests-- and dashed out again before the last knot was even tightened.The chickens barely had time to return before she sent them scattering once more."I'm coming! Papa, wait-- wait!"
...The sun dipped low as the pair made their way down the country road toward town, its fading light spilling across amber fields. To their right stretched a patch of soybeans, their leaves rustling softly; beyond that lay the broad moat encircling the towering outer walls of Kaifeng, dark waters reflecting the last glow of dusk. Ahead, the southern outskirts bustled-- laborers returning, merchants calling, the day folding into evening."Do you think that dancer lady will be there again, Papa?" the girl asked, skipping at his side. Every few steps she darted to chase a grasshopper, only to hurry back again."Hmph." He grunted. "She was just a common w--"The girl gasped, nearly stumbling mid-step. That word was far too crude for her ears."Papa! You shouldn't say such things! Besides, she wasn't a w-- she is a dancer!"He shot her an odd look.
"Do as I say, not as I do. Don't repeat such words." He paused, relenting with a sigh. "Fine. A dancer. Why are you so taken with her?"By now, they had entered the flow of the town, weaving through the evening crowd."Because I want to be a dancer too!" she declared."Hmph. Don't waste yourself chasing that dream, girl. You're meant for better."Despite the gruffness of his words, his hand came down gently atop her head in a familiar, doting pat. She responded with a small growl and fell into sullen silence.
Before long, they parted ways as they always did.Her father had business to attend to-- selling grain, then lingering over drinks at the tavern with other men of the fields. As for her, she had far more pressing matters.Namely, her friends.One of the girls had brought new dolls from the city-- real porcelain ones, not the rough wooden figures Yingzimò was used to. She had to see them. She had to.All her own toys were carved from scrap wood. And the one time her father had tried to make her a proper baby doll… she was certain it was cursed. Its stiff limbs and hollow eyes had haunted her dreams for weeks.Now it lived beneath her bed, gathering dust and plotting her demise.Most evenings, she had two full hours of freedom.There was a climbing tree near the moat, and that was where they gathered. They hosted "tea" parties with cups of plain water, and now with treasured porcelain dolls, pretending, that for a fleeting while, they belonged to a finer world.
Three hours went by...By the time she hurried from her friends, night had already settled in. Lanterns flickered to life along the street, and a chill crept into the air. She quickened her pace, heart thumping-- she was late. Her father told her to meet him at the tavern an hour ago.Fortunately, it stood just around the corner.She skidded to a stop at the back entrance, catching herself on the wall before peeking through the door. Her eyes searched the interior--There!Her father sat at his usual table, hunched over a game of mahjong. His brows were knit, lips pressed thin... Whatever the outcome, it was not a kind one.When he glanced up and spotted her, he gave a small grunt, pushed his tiles away, and excused himself. He rose heavily, as if the weight of the day clung to his limbs, and made his way over."Were you winning, Papa?" she asked, trying to restrain her grin."No..." He shook his head, then sighed. "It's about that time, huh? I promised you fireworks. You know where to go."With a delighted squeal, she darted off before he could utter another word, slipping around the side of the tavern to a narrow ladder against the wall. Her father always knew the best vantage points in town-- and it helped that the tavern keeper was an old friend.She climbed quickly, nimble as a cat, and pulled herself onto the roof. Settling at the edge, she gazed out to the city. The long stretch of the outer wall lay before them, rooftops rising like waves just beyond it. In the distance, the festival tower stood tall, lanterns glowing like a cluster of stars.She hugged her knees, smiling to herself. What a wonderful day it had been. Except... when she took a mouthful of dirt. That was rather unpleasant.
A moment later, the ladder creaked. Her father emerged onto the roof and lowered himself beside her with a considerable exhale. His body sank as though gravity doubled its hold on him.She hesitated, then spoke-- the question had been gnawing at her all evening, even as she played and laughed."...Why did you say I'd be wasting my skills as a dancer?"Her father was quiet for a time. The distant murmur of the festival drifted through the night."Ah..." he said at last. "Daughter, I do not doubt you would be a fine dancer. If the choice were mine, I would let you be one."She frowned, confused. "Then... why not?"He looked out toward the tower, eyes reflecting its distant lights."One day," he said softly, "you will be called to walk a righteous path. It is your birthright. You will grow strong, protect the weak, and carve a name far brighter than any stage could grant."She tried to understand. Her young mind tried to grasp his distant words, but before she could ask more--Crack!The first fireworks lit up the sky, bursting into a cascade of gold and crimson colors.She watched in awe, yet the question lingered in her heart.Why could she not be a dancer?All her friends' parents encouraged it.So why not hers?
"GET UP!"
That's right... We're here.Here in the mud, in the rain, beneath the bamboo thicket.There is dirt and blood on the tongue. Knees tremble. Skin seethes. Out of breath and out of time.Maybe... maybe this is it.
...Shing--Steel split the air.Yingzimò threw herself sideways, the blade crashing down where she had lay a moment before. Dirt and rainwater splashed against her cheek as she hit the ground.Reality came rushing back-- cold, sharp, unforgiving.No more dancing through golden wheat fields.
No more tea with laughing friends.
No more fireworks beside Papa.Only this.Only her master-- and the merciless lesson carried into each and every mistake."Are you a pig in spring?!" he barked.Another strike came without warning. She barely rolled out in time, the edge grazing past her body, knocking another breath from her chest."Up!" His voice cracked like a whip. "Rise, girl. You shame your name!"Her teeth clenched.
It was that blasted turn.If not for that single misstep-- that clumsy shift of footing-- she would have caught the blow.Twist. Step. Turn. Strike.Why did it always fall apart at the turn?She scrambled upright, dragging the back of her sleeve across her lips to wipe away the grit. Her fingers closed around the grip of her fallen sword. No time to think--Steel met steel.The impact shuddered her arms as she barely raised the blade in time to block. The force drove her back, boots catching in the mud, and her balance threatening to betray her once more.Her eyes snapped across the clearing.Gone.
No-- not gone.
Somewhere.
He moved like an elusive weasel. There, then not, and never where he should be.Her vision blurred. Tears swelled at her eyes, hot against the cold rain.But she did not move.
She could not.Yingzimò closed her eyes.
Breathe.She felt the rain first-- each drop striking her skin, one by one, distinct as falling beads. The wind followed, heavy restless, tugging at her robes as if it urged her to flee.Her grip tightened.
The sword no longer felt separate.One step forward.
The blade traced a clean, graceful arc through the air.Left foot slides back.
Her blade rose, cutting cleanly through the falling rain, scattering droplets into mist.Behind her, a crack.
Bamboo snapped.
A rush of wind. A shift in presence. The intent was clear.He was there.Her right foot pivoted, and her body followed. The turn came seamlessly, as her left foot swept back, right heel keeping her anchored in place. Her robes lifted with the motion. In that moment, she remembered the dancer, and her spin that was so effortless and light. She seemed like a leaf on the wind.No stumble, and no hesitation.
Her wrist turned, and the blade answered her call.Steel flashed forward.Two swords met and danced together, their edges singing as they crossed. Hers carried farther, just a fraction, that was just enough--A whisper of cold steel brushed past him.
And a single lock of hair drifted free, carried away by the rain.Finally, she could dance.Her steps found their rhythm in danger.The turn no longer betrayed her.It may not have been the dance she dreamed of, but it was hers.