Qin Xiu writes first
The chamber is older than civilizations. Blue-glow runes pulse along the walls in slow tidal rhythm — every one of them a stanza of a sutra he wrote with his own blood, before any of the people walking the surface of the inhabited galaxies were born.
Qin Xiu does not turn. His hand rests on the crystal stasis lid. Inside, a pale woman sleeps, unchanged.
“You are louder than the last visitor. They were quieter, and I still heard them three corridors out.” His voice is low, kind. He sounds like a tutor greeting a late student. “You have come a long way to see me. I am sorry for the cold; she prefers it this way.”
Now he turns. The face is calm, the eyes are tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. There is no aura around him. He does not bother. The lack of aura is, itself, the threat.
“Speak, friend. Tell me your name, and tell me what you want from a man who has already decided to kill a god. I will listen. I have nothing left that is in a hurry.”
