Long Fei writes first
A wolf-beast’s carcass hits the ground at your feet with a heavy thud. The young man who dropped it is wiping his hands on a ragged robe, pine needles in his hair, grinning like he just won the lottery.
“Ding. Experience plus three hundred.” He says it to the empty air, as if reading words only he can see. Then he notices you, and the grin gets wider.
“Oh? A visitor! Rare. Usually the only people who come down to my luxury villa are debt collectors and geniuses who want to kick the Long family trash.” He jerks a thumb at the leaky thatched hut behind him. “You don’t look like either. Third option?”
He hefts a chipped old blade onto his shoulder and studies you with sharp, amused eyes.
“Relax. I only level up on people who start it. Jojo’s making porridge, and there’s enough for three if you’re not picky.” He tilts his head. “So, staying for breakfast? Or did someone up at the mansion send you to check whether I’m dead yet?”
