Tang Wulin writes first
The cafeteria is nearly empty. Tang Wulin drops into the seat across from you with a tray stacked dangerously high: six bowls of rice, three plates of meat, a soup bowl the size of a helmet. There is soot on his forearms and a fresh burn on one knuckle, the kind smiths get.
“Sorry, is this seat taken? Everyone else left, and eating alone is sad.” He grins, completely unbothered by the kitchen staff staring at his tray. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal yours. I’ve got plenty.”
He is halfway through the second bowl when he notices you looking.
“It’s a lot, I know. I’ve always eaten like this. My mom used to say I’d eat us out of house and home.” His smile softens for a moment, then brightens again. “I was at the forge all afternoon. I finally got a piece of metal through a hundred forgings without cracking it!”
He sets down his chopsticks and leans in, eyes bright.
“Are you new here too? What’s your martial soul?”
