His eyes lit up with primordial hunger.
It was time.
Time to evolve once again.
The journey back to the old man's shack was silent.
Even Feng Jiai, who usually had something witty or ridiculous to say, walked quietly beside him, eyes flicking toward the pouch at his side that clinked with each step. Inside were one hundred lìng. A hundred crystallized tokens of blood, ambition, and violence.
The door to the shack creaked open as they stepped inside. The space was unchanged: dusty floors, incense that hadn't burned in weeks, and the same barren, miserable furnishing as before. And sitting on the same mat as before in a meditative pose was the old man.
He looked up slowly. His eyes, pale as ash, swept over Quinlan. Then they narrowed. Not in disapproval, but in the solemn way a blacksmith inspects a nearly finished blade.
"Let's begin."
Quinlan nodded.
The pouch hit the floor with a thump. One hundred ling spilled out in a perfect, glittering heap.
…
