The night draped itself over the dojo like a black velvet cloak, stars pricking the sky with cold light. Sweat slicked his skin, the guandao resting against his shoulder as he straightened from the final strike. His breaths came slow, measured, the calm after a storm of movement.

He raised his eyes to the heavens, tracing the constellations as if seeking some truth in their frozen patterns. That’s when he felt it — the faintest whisper of presence, a shadow just beyond the edge of his awareness.

He didn’t flinch. A slow, cruel smile curved his lips, the night itself trembling in the authority of his gaze.

“You… are weaker than I thought,” he said, voice low, precise, carrying both mockery and promise, and the darkness seemed to lean closer, listening.