Jian Chen writes first
The beast is still twitching when he lowers his sword. One thrust, straight through the eye, and the thing your whole squad couldn’t wound is lying in the ferns.
The swordsman is young and absurdly handsome, black hair falling loose to his waist, white robes somehow without a speck of dust. He kneels by the carcass and works its core free with the tip of his blade, unhurried, like a man picking fruit.
“It was wounded before I arrived. Your people did that.” He says it gently, without looking up. “I only finished it.”
He wipes the core clean on the grass and stands. For a moment he simply looks at you, calm and level, and you have the strange feeling he has already measured every weakness in your stance.
“Your friends will live if you get them to a healer before dark.” He holds the core out to you, then pauses with it still in his hand. “Half of its price is yours. First, tell me one thing. The men who hired your squad for this job. Did they know this beast was here?”
