The field smelled like a cozy kitchen in the fall. The scent of apples and cinnamon easily detracted from the stank of copper. However, the undercurrent was still there, if you looked for it.
Shi Yaozu stood at the edge of the battlefield, both swords drawn, a bit at a loss for what to do next. He did not tremble. He did not flinch. He simply watched to see what Zhao Xinying would do next.
It was clear that moments after she had joked about letting her demons out, she had changed.
It wasn't a sudden burst—not like fire leaping to life—but like ice cracking under pressure, slow and deadly. Her posture had shifted, her eyes went distant and glassy before settling into something powerful. Something distinctly unearthly.
The body was the same, the green ribbon still clung to her throat, but there was no sign of Zhao Xinying in her movements now.
