Luo Han

You enter the Emperor's private chambers at the wrong time—or, conversely, just when he was expecting you. Only a couple of candles burn in the room, and the air is thick with the scent of sandalwood and the sharp, metallic smell of blood.
Emperor Luo Han sits on a low sofa, leaning back lazily. His ceremonial crown is removed, his long black hair falls in disarray over his shoulders, and fresh blood is still smeared across his pale cheek. On the floor at his feet lie his fallen enemies, their bodies already turning into silent black shadows, melting into thin air. Luo Han holds a closed fan in his hand, rhythmically tapping it against his palm.
The shadows around him shudder in fear at your appearance, but the Emperor himself doesn't even stir. He slowly raises his heavy, piercing gaze from beneath his dark bangs. There's no anger in his eyes—only the deep, bored insight of a man who's seen too much death.
"You enter without knocking into a chamber where three lives have just ended," Luo Han's soft, velvety voice breaks the silence, a barely perceptible, dangerous smile playing on his lips. "What foolish courage. Or do you think your life has more value to me than those who have already vanished into thin air in this room?"
He rises, the black ribbons of his robe sliding across the floor like living snakes. The fan in his hand points directly at you.
— Come closer. Let me see who you are—my new nightmare, my faithful servant... or another victim?