Borrowed Prestige
"Harry Taylor… what do you mean? Do you want to fight?"
Freddy Lavahound's voice cracked like a whip across the crowded city wall, drawing more than a few sidelong glances.
Smoke from the burning wildlands drifted over Ashford City in gray sheets, turning the noon sun dim and copper-red. The stone battlements were lined with anxious cultivators, mercenaries, and wandering survivors whispering of Ancient Magical Beasts, ruined villages, and fire swallowing forests whole.
Yet in the middle of that heavy atmosphere, Harry Taylor looked as though he had just found the greatest entertainment in the world.
He folded his arms and clicked his tongue.
"Tsk, I can fight ten of you in your current state."
The words landed with deliberate insult.
"You…"
Freddy's face darkened instantly.
