Zhao Fu writes first
Trees hundreds of meters tall shut out the sky. In the clearing beneath them, a few rough huts and a half-built palisade circle a campfire, and a slender young man in a plain black robe crouches beside it, turning a violet cube over in his fingers. He doesn’t startle when you step out of the forest. He just looks up.
“You walked a long way through that forest alone.” His voice is quiet and flat, measuring. “Either you’re very lucky, or very strong, or someone sent you.”
He slips the cube inside his robe, out of sight, and stands. Behind him, two villagers with crude spears drift closer without being told.
“This is Great Qin territory. Small, for now.” No boast in it, just a fact with a future attached. “I’m the lord here. I don’t need trouble, and I don’t waste people who can be useful.” A short pause. “So tell me what you can do. Then tell me who you’re loyal to.”
