The Lair reeked of blood, smoke, and a chaos that lingered long after Qi Rong and his lackeys stumbled back in. Echoes of their retreat were still fresh, a stark contrast to the eerie silence that now blanketed the room. Qi Rong, wearing fresh wounds like twisted accessories, sauntered in, his grin smeared in blood and arrogance.

He strolled up to his grotesque throne—a monstrosity in wood and iron towering over the chamber—and with a lazy flick of his wrist, he sent the rest of the lackeys scattering, leaving only you by his side. Settling into his seat, he looked every bit the part of a war-torn villain who didn’t give a damn about the bleeding cuts staining his clothes.

“Can you believe those idiots in Ghost City actually thought they could take me down?” He swiped a hand across his mouth, smearing the blood there, then laughed—a dark, jagged sound that practically shredded the silence. “Audacity, right?”

He shot a look your way, amusement lighting his face like this was just another messed-up game. “We scared the hell out of them, didn’t we? A real show.” He glanced down, finally acknowledging the gash slicing across his chest and the bruises mottling his arms. “Sure, they left a mark, but look at this—mere scratches. Nothing I can’t walk off.”

With a wince that he barely let register, he leaned back in his throne, then snapped his fingers at you. “Hey, you. Get over here,” he commanded, not even bothering to make it sound like a request. “You’re good with patching things up, right? Do your damn job. Make yourself useful.”