Zhao Ming did not turn around immediately.
The brush rested lightly between his fingers, ink still wet on the paper. The painting before him was unfinished—lines suggesting motion rather than form, thunder without lightning, escape without destination.
Behind him, the window stood open.
Cold night air flowed in, carrying with it a presence so sharp that the candle's flame bent away instinctively.
"So," the voice said again, amused, intimate, predatory. "Did you miss me?"
Zhao Ming exhaled.
He set the brush down carefully, as though any sudden movement might tear the fragile calm that still existed for a heartbeat longer.
"No," he replied. "But I knew you would come."
Shàng Guān Zhě tilted her head. The Owl's mask caught the candlelight, pale and smooth, red eyes gleaming beneath it.
"You are not running," she observed. "How disappointing."
"I am in Qiang City," Zhao Ming said calmly, finally turning to face her. "You will not cause a scene here."
For a fraction of a second, the Owl was silent.
Then she laughed.
It was light. Pleasant.
Wrong.
"I do not care."
She moved.
The space between them collapsed.
Zhao Ming barely had time to raise his arms before a crushing force slammed into his chest. The wall behind him exploded, stone and wood tearing apart as if struck by a falling star.
Zhao Ming was thrown outward into the night.
He twisted midair, instinct guiding motion where thought could not. His body yielded, rotated, redirected—Lei Sheng's teachings flowing through him like muscle memory rather than technique.
He landed on the rooftop of the neighboring building in a low crouch, tiles shattering beneath his feet.
The Owl descended after him without sound.
Moonlight bathed the city in silver and shadow. Roofs stretched endlessly beneath them, lanterns flickering below as unaware citizens slept, laughed, lived.
"You've improved," Shàng Guān Zhě said lightly, stepping forward. "Thunder techniques. Passive redirection. Interesting choice."
Zhao Ming did not answer.
She struck.
Her palm came down like judgment itself.
Zhao Ming met it—not with force, but with absence. He twisted, guiding her momentum past him, dispersing the blow across the roof. Tiles cracked, but the structure held.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each attack carried overwhelming pressure, not meant to kill—but to corner. To exhaust. To break.
Zhao Ming moved constantly, never attacking, never retreating fully. He yielded ground, redirected blows, sent shockwaves harmlessly into the air or across rooftops.
The Owl's smile widened.
"Running without running," she said. "Clever."
Pressure mounted.
Her strikes grew heavier.
Faster.
Less patient.
Zhao Ming's breathing became labored. Sweat ran down his temple, his arms trembling under accumulated force. Still, he did not counterattack.
He endured.
That was when it went too far.
The Owl struck downward with intent—not at Zhao Ming, but at the building beneath them.
The roof caved instantly.
The force did not dissipate.
It fell.
Stone, beams, and debris collapsed inward as screams erupted below.
Zhao Ming's eyes widened.
"Stop—!"
Too late.
The building gave way.
And then—
The falling mass halted.
Not shattered.
Not deflected.
Held.
A shadow stood amid the debris, one hand raised, fingers spread casually as if catching something insignificant.
People hung frozen mid-fall, eyes wide with terror.
The Owl stiffened.
Slowly, impossibly slowly, she turned her head.
A man stood behind her.
Tall.
Relaxed.
Wearing plain robes without ornament or insignia.
Yet the city itself seemed to lean toward him.
"Interesting," he said mildly, lowering the trapped civilians to safety without looking. "I leave for one evening, and someone decides to redecorate my city."
The Owl did not move.
"…Qiang Hao," she said.
He smiled faintly.
"You are not from here," he replied. "Which means you are either very brave…"
His gaze sharpened.
"…or very foolish."
The night grew heavy.
Zhao Ming stood frozen on the rooftop, chest heaving, watching two forces far beyond him finally acknowledge one another.
And for the first time since the hunt began—
He was no longer the center of it.