The flames still hadn't died down by the time the City Lord's personal guards arrived at the inn. The alley, already narrow and shrouded in shadow, had become a battleground of crumbled stone, broken wards, and corrupted Qi. Ash and scorched talismans floated in the air like ghostly feathers.
Adrian stood at the center of it all, his robe torn, the Skyveil sword in his hand humming with tension. Blood dripped from a shallow cut on his shoulder, and his breaths came ragged, but his eyes were steady—unflinching as they stared down the three remaining Wraiths.
Wraith No. 4 lay motionless, his body half-buried beneath a fallen beam and a curse formation that had detonated on impact. His dagger was cracked. The void mark on his mask had shattered, leaving a splatter of corrupted Qi behind.
The other three Wraiths, however, were now silent. Their casual arrogance had evaporated. What replaced it was cold, meticulous fury.
