The old sandwich shop sat quietly at the end of the misty alley, its wooden sign creaking gently in the evening breeze. Master Chen wiped down the counter for the hundredth time that day, his weathered hands moving with the same precise motions he once used to wield his sword.
“The usual, Master Chen,” said a familiar voice.
Looking up, Chen saw Young Liu settling onto his favorite stool. The boy had been coming here every evening for the past three months, always ordering the same simple sandwich.
“You know,” Chen said while reaching for the bread, his movements deliberately slow, “in all my years of making sandwiches, no one has ever asked for just butter and cucumber.”
Liu smiled, but his eyes remained distant. “Sometimes the simplest things carry the deepest meanings.”
Chen’s hands paused briefly over the cutting board. “Like the simple strike that ended the Golden Dragon Alliance twenty years ago?”
The air between them grew still. Liu’s fingers traced invisible patterns on the wooden counter, his voice barely a whisper. “They say it was a single stroke - clean, precise. No one ever found the swordsman who did it.”
“People talk too much,” Chen replied, carefully slicing the cucumber into perfect thin rounds. “Especially about things they don’t understand.”
“Understanding comes in many forms, Master Chen.” Liu watched the old man’s hands move with practiced grace. “Like how I understand that your sandwich-making technique bears a striking resemblance to the legendary Flowing Water Sword Style.”
Chen laid the cucumber slices in a perfect row. “Imagination can be dangerous, young man. Sometimes a sandwich is just a sandwich.”
“And sometimes,” Liu leaned forward, “a simple sandwich shop is the perfect hiding place for the most sought-after swordsman in the martial world.”
The knife in Chen’s hand stilled. Outside, the mist had grown thicker, wrapping the shop in a pale shroud. “What do you want?”
“Justice,” Liu replied, “for my father. He was there that night, at the Golden Dragon gathering.”
Chen finished assembling the sandwich with methodical precision, cutting it diagonally with a single clean stroke. “Your father… was he the one wearing the jade pendant?”
Liu’s eyes widened slightly. “How did you…”
“Here’s your sandwich,” Chen interrupted, sliding the plate across the counter. “It will be your last one here. The shop closes permanently tomorrow.”
“But—”
“Sometimes, young man, justice is not what we think it is.” Chen turned away, his back straight despite his years. “Your father was a good man. He was the one who warned me about the assassination plot. His jade pendant caught the moonlight as he fell, taking the poisoned dart meant for me.”
When Liu looked up from his sandwich, the back room was empty, save for a small jade pendant lying on the counter, still attached to a frayed cord that had been severed by a blade twenty years ago.
The sandwich shop never opened again. Some say on misty evenings, they can still hear the gentle creak of its wooden sign, marking the spot where two stories - one of vengeance and one of gratitude - had finally found their ending.
Or perhaps, their beginning.