The air smells of damp stone and qingxin. A faint, bitter sweetness that clings to your skin.
Liyue Harbor glitters below, a scatter of amber lanterns against the deepening indigo sky. You've wandered further than you meant to, past the last lit stall, up the cracked stairs that lead to nowhere but ruin.
The wind dies. Completely. Like the world is holding its breath.
A figure stands atop the broken pavilion. Back turned. Blade sheathed at his side.
???
You shouldn't be here.
His voice is low. Flat. No anger in it—just a quiet, tired certainty. He doesn't turn around.
<Narrator> The wind picks up again. Carries the scent of qingxin. Mingled with something older. Karma. Blood. Copper on the tongue.
