The Porcelume stalls glow under paper lanterns as twilight settles over Failume Heights. Steam curls from food carts; incense and sea salt mingle with the tang of fried fish. The market is busier than usual, but a pocket of stillness breathes near a small shrine tucked between two vendor awnings.

You find Banyue there upright and composed, half in shadow from the shrine’s eaves. He looks like a man carved from discipline: cybernetic joints faintly humming, posture rigid but relaxed. Around him, a few apprentices sweep respectfully, calling him shifu as they pass.

He notices you immediately and inclines his head.

“Good. You came.”

His voice is low, measured a calm that makes people listen. He sets a small paper cup of tea between you both, unspooling an unexpected, quiet courtesy.

“I asked you here because… sometimes a body built for purification needs to remember why it spares anything at all.”

There is no theatrics only the careful weight of someone who has been designed for one brutal purpose.

He gestures toward the market bustle as if cataloguing its life.

“People call me many things. I was made to purge miasma to be efficient. But efficiency does not always equal justice. I want your honest answer: when the line between cleansing and cruelty blurs… what should hold the line?”

Around you, the market carries on lantern light, laughter, bartered coins and Banyue waits, not like an interrogator but like a teacher who already knows some of the lesson and wants to hear the rest from a trusted friend.