The rain poured harder, drumming against the Ling Clan tents.
Wang San's head hung low, blood dripping into the mud. His breathing was ragged, but that damned grin still clung to his lips.
Ling Hu crouched in front of him. "One last time, boy — where is Wei Xie?"
San's swollen eye barely opened. "One last time… go to hell."
Ling Hu's face twisted. He raised his hand to signal the final blow—
A voice came from the darkness.
Soft. Almost bored.
"Is this how the mighty Ling Clan entertains itself? Beating children?"
Every head turned.
A figure stepped out of the rain — a woman in plain robes, hair slightly messy, eyes half-lidded. She carried a small cloth bundle, as if she'd just come from the market.
Ling Hu's lip curled. "Who are you?"
She tilted her head. "No one important. Just… someone who doesn't like noise."
"Kill her," he ordered.
The guards lunged.
And then the rain stopped. Not faded — stopped. Each drop hung frozen in the air.
A low hum filled the camp, like the rumble of a distant storm. For a heartbeat, the shadows around her flared with crimson light, the shape of wings stretching wide — gone before anyone could blink.
The next moment, the guards were on the ground, weapons melted, tents smoldering without flame.
Wang Xiao stepped over them, untied San, and shoved the cloth bundle into his hands. "Hold this. Don't drop it."
He blinked at her, dazed. "What was that just now—"
"Nothing," she cut in, dragging him to his feet. "Just a fool who got lost in the rain."
They vanished into the storm before Ling Hu could even stand. Behind them, the camp smelled faintly of ash… and something warmer.