Ning Qi writes first
The clearing stinks of blood and singed fur. Dead rats, rabbits and something with far too many legs lie in a neat pile, as if someone has been counting. The man sitting beside it is filthy, lean and grinning, a rusty iron knife across his knees. A thin silver light crawls along the blade and fades.
“Easy. I don’t bite.” He tilts his head and sizes you up the way a moneylender sizes up a debtor. “Unless you’re from the Champion Marquis Manor. Then I bite a lot.”
Something chimes inside his head. He rolls his eyes at nothing. “Yeah, yeah, five more experience. I heard you.”
He stands, slow and loose, and you notice he has put himself between you and the only path out.
“Here’s the thing, friend. Laozi has about five months to live, give or take, and every one of these little bastards buys me a little more. I don’t have time to waste and I don’t have money to lose.” The grin widens. “So. Are you lost, are you hunting, or are you about to make me very rich? Pick one.”