The moon hung low that night, veiled by drifting clouds that resembled slow-moving smoke. The eastern territory was silent, eerily so. Even the cicadas and nocturnal beasts seemed unwilling to make a sound under that kind of stillness. The wind that brushed through the towers carried a faint metallic scent, the aftertaste of blood and steel that never quite left this land.
On the highest balcony of the Eastern Command Pavilion, Ji Xiulan stood alone.
The faint silver light of the moon touched his figure, painting his dark robes with streaks of cold light. His long hair, black as obsidian, flowed down his back, brushing against the engraved metal railing where his fingers rested. The night breeze stirred the loose strands, yet he didn't seem to feel it. His expression was tranquil, detached, yet there was a strange pressure around him, as though the air itself feared to draw too close.
