The dim glow of lanterns cast flickering shadows across the walls of the massive tent. Walls with thick fabric and hung up by sturdy wooden beams, it stood resilient against the wind that howled outside.
Inside, the room carried the scent of burning incense, mixed with faint traces of wine and blood—a reminder of the men who had gathered here, making deals, planning ambushes, and sharing secrets.
At the heart of the tent, Qiang sat upon a large, ornately carved wooden chair. It wasn't quite a throne, but it might as well have been. The table before him was scattered with maps, old scrolls, and a half-filled cup of wine. A flickering candle illuminated his hardened features as he leaned back, lost in thought.
Years ago, he had been nothing but a nameless bandit, scrounging for scraps and stealing from merchants too weak to fight back. Now, the most powerful sects paid him to do their dirty work, his name was spoken about in hushed tones, carrying both fear and respect.
