The night air was thick and heavy, pressing down on the grey-tiled roof like cotton soaked in ink.
Pi Yanlin leaned his back against the mottled brick wall of the ancestral hall, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing the fragment of the *Lazy Soul Projection Art* hidden in his robes. The scent of rust in the wind grew sharper. He stared at the churning red mist on the eastern horizon, his Adam's apple bobbing—the mist was condensing at a visible rate, like a patch of blood drained of moisture, poised to brand the sky with a scar shaped like a moon.
"System, check in," he murmured, his voice as faint as a sigh.
Chapter 50