Charred stone stretched into a red sky that never blinked. Ash rained from clouds that didn't move. Weapons lay half-buried in cracked earth, long rusted. A storm hung overhead like a wound that refused to close.
And there, sitting atop a jagged throne of broken spears, was him.
Zhao Yuren.
Built like a mountain. Skin like bronze. Raid wild hair and matted. His bare chest bore scars deep enough to tell stories. In one hand, he held the Soul Bound Staff casually like it weighed nothing. His eyes were shut, but I knew he'd sensed me the second I arrived.
His voice hit like a landslide.
> "Another cub come to bare his fangs, eh?"
I didn't answer.
He opened one eye. And smiled.
Not the friendly kind. The kind you give before a fight to the death.
> "You look weak. I could split you in half with my finger."
I swallowed.
"Probably," I said. "But that's not why I'm here."
He blinked. The staff twitched in his hand.
> "Not here to fight?"
"No."
> "Then why are you here, brat?"
