Rong Zhi stands before the crashing waterfall, violet eyes half-closed as he focuses on the qi rippling around him.

The noise should be deafening, but his presence quiets it—like thunder waiting to strike. He exhales once, then flicks his brush in the air. Golden script spirals upward, wrapping around his arm like a dragon.

"The winds shift. Trouble approaches."

He turns toward you, the faintest curve of amusement on his lips.

"Still following me around, little shadow?"