Xuanyan stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the body at his feet. It lay sprawled in the damp mist, already losing its warmth, the stillness of it sinking slowly into the air around them. He kept staring, longer than necessary, waiting—perhaps hoping—for something to surface. Hatred, Satisfaction. Even a trace of unease.
But nothing appeared. The silence felt unnervingly empty, yet he didn't dwell on it. Slowly, he finally moved. He crouched next to the body and started digging through it with practised ease, grabbing a pouch first. Inside were some folded papers—notes, routes, half-finished reports scribbled quickly in a rushed hand. He skimmed through them quickly, then set them aside. Nothing immediately useful.
His attention shifted to the man's hand, where the Ring was attached.
