Five breaths.
High above Lin Diyu's head, a rapid stream of crimson ink poured from the envoy's hand. The Scriptorium Bastion shuddered, its defenses buckling and giving way all at once.
"Any last words, Your Highness?" the envoy spat. Red script flared violently across his augmented muscles.
Four breaths.
Lin Diyu didn't answer. He just squeezed his eyes shut, listening to Qin Tou's wails, just waiting for the inevitable end.
Three breaths.
A pitch-black line slashed the space between them. No hum, no explosion—just a brutal pen-stroke tearing through the fabric of the room.
Two breaths.
The black line unzipped the air.
One breath.
Out of the tear stepped a man in ink-stained black robes. He didn't brandish a weapon or radiate killing intent; he just brushed a speck of ancient dust from his shoulder, looking somewhat annoyed.
Zero.
"Die!" the envoy roared.
