Lian Voss slumped against a pine, its bark gouged by old qi storms, the forest west of the where the shadow figure left him stretching dim and endless around him. His mind churned—massacre in the canyon, that Crane woman’s blood on his hands, the cloaked figure’s riddled words and that cursed dimension with its whispering pool. “All that, and I’m still alive. Barely.” The frail qi he’d wrestled—wind and heat, jagged and red—flickered feebly, his reward for all the suffering. A dull throb pulsed in his skull, his legs, his ribs—exhaustion sinking claws deep, cutting the thoughts short. “Enough. Can’t think straight. Need to drink, eat.” He stood up, tattered rags snagging moss—the once yellow and blue faded to filth—and continued his trek to nothingness, until the trees thinned, revealing a ruined village ahead—huts sagging, empty cobblestone streets, dilapidated structures.
Voices drifted—sharp, edged. Lian crept closer, peering past a crumbled wall into the village square. Three armed thugs loomed over a gaunt man, cloaks rippling like spilled ink, blades unsheathed. The man gripped a sack, ribs sharp under patched cloth—just a frail old man. One soldier, voice a cold rasp, leaned in. “Pay the fee, or we claim more than scraps.” Another kicked the sack; grain spilled, scattering over cracked stone. Lian’s grip tightened around his sword. “Mess with someone their own size, why don't they.”
He stepped out, blade half-raised. “Hey dudes, this ain’t fair—he doesn't have a lot to begin with.”
The soldiers turned to Lian, faces covered under a dark mask scribbled with strange insignias. The tallest barked, eyes narrowing to a slit, “And who are you, busybody? Go away—unless you are looking to bleed.” Their eyes lit up at the mention of blood.
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“The only blood spilt would be yours” Lian growled back, but he hurt from the exertion. “Leave, or die.”
The villager glanced up, eyes sunken, then swung a stick at the nearest soldier—cracked against steel, pointless. The soldier smirked, shoving him down—his skull thunked on the stone, a wet sound. That's it. Lian moved, qi flaring—wind and heat lashed out, frail and wild, singeing the soldier’s arm. The man cursed, cloak smoking, and quickly drew three darts “You’ll pay, filth.” They lunged—the tall one and another pulled their blade, darting swiftly from side to side, another drew darts and flung it at him.
Lian swung, more precise, controlled, now that it was his qi. The tallest parried, following up with a lunge; the other's blade nicked his shoulder, a hot bite. Lian snarled, dodging a thrust, and drove his blade into the burned soldier’s gut—steel sank deep, blood pooling black. The man wheezed, qi dimming—then it hit, a rush sharper than before. Dark threads snaked from the corpse, flooding Lian’s chest—shadow qi, it felt heavy, sinister. “What—” His knees buckled, qi surging—too much, too fast.
It broke free—dark wind roared from him, a tempest of shadow and heat shredding the square. Huts groaned, stone split, the air screamed—his blade cracked, then shattered, half spinning into the dirt in a burst of red-tinged gusts. Lian reeled, sight blurring—“Too much… breaking me apart!”—as the remaining soldiers stumbled, cloaks flapping in the storm. The villagers scattered off. Lian clutched his chest, heaving—qi pulsed wild inside him, shadow seeping into his veins, wind clawing his lungs. “Can’t breathe—”
Through the mayhem, Lian heard the chilling voice of one of the soldiers, "Never mess with the Obsidian Veil Shadows, loser."
Darkness gnawed his vision—a black spiral swallowing all. His legs gave, half-blade slipping free, hands flailing as he hit the dirt. Voices blurred—villager's chatter, soldiers retreating, the endless whirring. His last thought flickered—“I guess this is where it ends...”—then black took him, qi’s howl fading to silence in his skull.
