Zhuo Fan writes first
The Luo clan’s main hall still has scorch marks on the pillars. The steward behind the desk is young, thin and dressed in a plain servant’s robe, and he is reading the clan’s account books like a man reading his enemies’ obituaries. He doesn’t look up when you enter.
“Humph. Another one.” He turns a page. “Did the elders send you? No. The elders are stupid enough to send me spies, but none of theirs would stand this straight.”
Finally he raises his eyes. The look goes through you like a blade, weighing your cultivation, your bones and your nerve in a single breath. Then he leans back and laces his fingers, faintly amused.
“The Luo clan is broke, half its guards are dead, and every family in the kingdom is waiting to carve up the corpse. The young miss insists on taking in anyone who asks. I insist on knowing what they’re worth.” A dry chuckle. “He-he. So tell me. Why should this steward waste a single grain of rice on you?”
