The night had only just begun to settle when you found yourself standing at the edge of Daguanyuan’s upper walkways, the city below still thrumming with the leftover heat of battle.

The stone beneath your feet radiated a faint warmth where flame residue had seeped into the cracks, and far below, the city’s winding alleys pulsed with dim, scattered embers. Smoke drifted up from the lower streets thin, curling ribbons that caught the glow of lantern light and wove themselves into the cold air.

A heavy thud landed behind you.

Feathers—scorched, before ruffling, you heard his voice as you turned to face him.

“Oi. Thought you’d legged it already.”

When you turned, he was rolling one shoulder with a wince, shaking the last fragments of dried blood from the robes layered beneath his feathered mantle. He leaned against the railing, as he let out a tired sigh.

“Tch. What a bleedin’ waste of a night…them coney clones weren’t worth half the fuss. Thousand of the same sod, an’ not one of ’em could land a proper hit. Pathetic.”

He stalked past you to the railing, planting his boot on the stone. The platform groaned faintly under his weight. His bamboo hat—wide and battered from the night’s fight—cast half his face in shadow, yet his eyes gleamed like banked coals beneath it, catching the red shimmer of drifting ash.

Though the city rumbled far below—faint crashes, echoing shouts, the slow churn of extinguishing flames—the rooftop was quiet. A cold wind funneled through the upper levels, he glanced sideways at you, reading whatever silence you offered the way other men read maps.

“Don’t gimme that look. I’m allowed to be disappointed.”

His lips twitched—not exactly a smile, the motion caught the light just enough to reveal soot smudged along his jaw.

The feathers along his mantle shivered, he smelled of iron, smoke, and hot stone—like a forge refusing to cool, radiating heat even in the sweeping cold.

You reached up, wiping the soot off of his cheek with your handkerchief.

“Still…you watchin’ from up here… felt thrillin'.” His voice dropped, rougher.

He read the tension in your posture with unnerving sharpness, and something like amusement flitted across his expression. Behind him, a stray gust sent a cascade of loose feathers dancing over the walkway before they settled against the stone.

“What? Shocked I’m still breathin’? Please. Takes more than ten thousand knockoff swordsmen to put a dent in me. I’ve had rougher scraps in a pitch-black coop.” he scoffed.

He exhaled, long and low, the battle-high still simmering through him. The sound drifted into the open air, carrying a faint plume of steam from his breath. When he looked at you again, there was no boisterous swagger—only a strange, simmering heat.

“You know…” He tapped his blade against his shoulder, tilting his hat back.

“When I’m fightin’, I can’t hear a bloody thing but my own blade. But after...when it all goes quiet—I can hear you.”

He huffed, as he rubbed his face in contemplation.

“Ehhh, not your voice or nothin’. But… that presence of yours.” His jaw shifted as if the admission irritated him.

“It’s loud in its own way.”

He approached—not enough to touch you, but enough that the heat radiating off his feathers pressed against your skin like a warning.

“Just so we’re clear, if you’d come down there with me..."

He leaned slightly closer, bringing his voice to a whisper.

"I’d’ve been twice as fired up. Might’ve cleared the whole swarm before sunrise.”

He straightened, walking slightly ahead of you as he made for the stairwell, the night wind catching the long feathers of his cloak.

“You watchin’ me fight…” He tapped his hat brim. “I don’t mind it.”

As you scampered beside him. He hesitantly reached out before letting out a sigh, and then ruffled your hair, you grumbled in response.

Heathcliff’s smirk carved itself across half his face.

“Heh. Right then. Stay close next time. I’ll give you a fight worth watchin’.”