I knocked on the door, the sound echoing faintly through the hallway. "May I come in?"

  His raspy, deep voice called back with a gravelly timbre, "Yes."

  I'm here to visit someone—someone that could be of infinite importance to my mission. Not just another name on a list, but a potential turning point. A gamble worth placing many chips on.

  I pushed the door open. The old hinges let out a sharp creak, the kind that grated against my ears and added a certain weight to the silence that followed. The room beyond was highly lit, the curtains half-drawn, letting in slits of morning light that streaked across the floor like pale fingers. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and breakfast syrup.

  He lay on his bed, the sheets pulled up loosely over his waist. A bandage was wrapped around his torso, and his arms were littered with bruises in varying stages of healing. Despite everything, the room was roughly the same quality as mine—nothing extravagant, just the standard quarters. I couldn’t let him go unrewarded, not after what he’d endured.

  He reached for a fork resting on a small wooden table beside him and slowly cut into the lone pancake on his plate. The motion was sluggish, almost painful to watch, each movement took more effort than it should. I made my way to the visitor's couch near the foot of the bed and sat down, sinking into its worn cushions.

  His neck brace caught my eye—a rigid thing that made even the act of turning his head a chore. He was hurt bad, worse than I’d expected.

  I asked, "How's your recovery going? You should heal quicker now that you're transcended."

  He scoffed, a bitter sound that didn’t quite mask the frustration in his expression. "Fast for someone normal. It's still going to take another two months. Every martial artist wants to transcend, but me? It feels like a curse."

  I scratched my forehead, uncertain how to respond to that kind of bitterness. "It can seem that way. I promise you, it's not. Now you have the power to trample anyone."

  He took a bite of the pancake, chewing slowly before setting the fork down with a clink against the plate. "With this martial art passed down my family? It's... it's useless."

  That caught my attention. I had been wondering about the strange style he used, the way he fought so savagely, yet precisely. I leaned in, deciding to pry a little. "What martial art was that? You were able to take chunks of flesh out from Haet."

  He turned his head slightly, grimacing from the strain, and looked toward the window. The light caught in his eyes as he answered, "It's called Crushing Palm. I use my hands like claws, and close them around flesh. The problem is you need a master's level of endurance. I lose the stamina to fight within ten minutes. That's disregarding what it does to your hands."

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  It has more cons than Piercing Hand, that's for sure. I stared at his chest, rising and falling steadily beneath the thin blanket. Even now, weakened and recovering, his aura rivaled mine. I needed him. Not just as an ally—but as a force. Someone like him could shift the tide.

  I explained, trying to keep my tone measured, persuasive. "Well, Trivoko is now free. Sun won't abuse you."

  Zhen’s eyes locked onto mine, unreadable, but alert.

  "We do, however, want..." I paused for effect, watching to see if he flinched. He didn’t. Just leaned in slightly, listening with the kind of intensity that told me I had his attention. "...want a smaller portion of the gold. As the entire continent knows, we are at war with Obsidian. However, we are generous. How much was Obsidian taking?"

  His voice was quiet, almost ashamed. "Ninety percent."

  I snapped my fingers, a sharp sound in the stillness of the room, like striking a match. "How about forty percent for us? I'll leave most of my men here for protection, and the rest of the Royal Guard can help too!"

  I tried to sound enthusiastic. Bright, almost cheerful. But inside, the guilt coiled like smoke. We were still stealing—no matter how you dressed it. At best, you could call it a protection fee. A nicer name for extortion.

  Zhen nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit. "That’d be nice."

  I crossed my arms, adding a final sweetener. "After the war is over, I'll lower it to ten percent."

  His eyes widened slightly at that. A spark of hope flickered in them—hope that maybe things could change. That maybe we weren’t just a new face wearing the same old boot.

  I stood up, ready to leave. The conversation had gone better than I’d expected. But before I could reach the door, Zhen reached out a hand, stopping me. His fingers curled around my sleeve lightly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask.

  I turned, "Yes?"

  Zhen hesitated, then asked, "How can I repay you for this? Personally..."

  Got him.

  I kept my expression even. "I'm going to do something in the future that could end my life. In that time, can I ask for your help so that doesn't happen?"

  Zhen lowered his hand slowly back to the blanket, his face softening. "Of course."

  I looked ahead, toward the door. "Good. Please recover quickly." I stepped out and gently closed the door behind me.

  Emma stood just outside, her arms crossed, eyes watching me.

  "I’ve brokered a deal," I said, letting some relief into my voice. "Let’s head out."

  Emma nodded, her voice as disciplined as ever. "Yes, sir."