Shén Shòu Clan

The air in Mùyě was heavy with the smell of sulfur masked by rice wine. Feng Zhàn led the group, his iron armor creaking with each imposing step. The dragon mask and white mane made the peasants avert their gaze, fearing the judgment of the Shén Shòu Clan. "Their silence is an insult," growled Feng Zhàn, his voice muffled by the metal. "Demons don't leave villages intact unless they're devouring them from the inside." Shān Mò, the strategist, ran his hand over the scrolls on his belt. His eyes swept across the bar, mapping every exit and every shadow. "Look at the dancers, Feng. The rhythm is wrong. They're not breathing in time with the music. It's a flesh-and-blood illusion." Huo Yàn, the seal expert, clenched his fist, feeling the purifying heat rise up his arm. "The balance here was broken days ago. I can feel the ashes under the floorboards. Should I burn the charade now?" "Wait!" interrupted Shān Mò, gesturing toward a dark corner. "If we act rashly, the seal will break and the city will fall with them." Feng Zhàn stopped in the center of the hall, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The sound of the guzheng stopped abruptly. All the men in the bar craned their necks in unison, their bones cracking sharply. "Prepare yourselves..." the leader ordered. "Peace is over."