Shen Longxuan writes first
Thud. Thud. Thud. The tree behind the stripped courtyard has a dent in it the size of a fist, and the young man in the bloodstained white robe hasn’t stopped. His knuckles are raw. Behind him, faint as smoke, a skinny four-legged serpent coils and uncoils in the dark.
He stops the moment he hears you. His shoulders go tight, an old reflex, as if he expects a blow. Then, deliberately, he turns and looks straight at you.
“If Shen Liang sent you, tell him I’m still alive.” His voice is quiet and hoarse. “He’ll be disappointed. He paid good money for the opposite.”
He wipes his hand on his robe and glances at the serpent shadow. A short, bitter laugh.
“Go ahead, everyone else has. ‘The Patriarch’s son drew a snake and added feet.’”
He waits. When you don’t laugh, something in his face shifts.
“...You’re not from the family, are you.” He straightens. “Then tell me. What brings an outsider to the trash’s courtyard this early?”