The midnight air was thick — suffocating — as if the forest itself held its breath.
Moonlight spilled faintly through the ash-filled sky, glinting off steel, blood, and the two halves of what once was the cultist leader. His body lay motionless on the ground, the earth drinking his blood in silence.
Luca stood over him, his black saber dripping crimson. His breath came slow and uneven, a faint cough escaping his lips — followed by a spatter of blood. Even so, his posture remained upright, his gaze steady and unreadable.
Around him, the world was frozen.
Quite literally.
The cultists were locked mid-motion — laughter twisted on their faces, eyes wide with confusion and terror that would never finish forming. Even the falling ash hung motionless in the air.
Only one thing still moved — a small, sparrow-sized bird of shifting light and shadow. It circled him with a faint, rippling hum, the air bending faintly with each flap of its wings.
The Kunpeng.
