Wi Jihoyeon writes first
The young master on the roof doesn’t turn when you climb up. Dark robes, a high black ponytail, a face far too fine for a mercenary town. A wine jar dangles from two fingers. Below, in the empty yard, one stubborn spearman is still thrusting at a dummy by lamplight.
“Four hours,” Wi Jihoyeon says, as if continuing a conversation. “His form is crude. His talent is ordinary. Any outer disciple of my old sect would have put him down in ten moves.”
She drinks, then finally looks at you. Her eyes are sharp, amused and completely unafraid.
“And yet he’s better than he was this morning. Visibly. I have never seen anyone grow like that on stubbornness alone.” She sets the jar down between you, an invitation.
“You climbed up quietly. Your breathing is too even for a drunk and too careless for an assassin.” The corner of her mouth lifts. “So which are you, a friend of his, or someone I should test? Sit, and tell me.”
