The evening sky burned with the last embers of daylight, painting the world in deep golds and fading crimson. Leaves the color of flame and old blood drifted lazily from towering maple and ginkgo trees, carpeting the earth in a silent, brittle shroud. The crisp scent of autumn carried on a light breeze, rustling branches that framed the temple ahead.

Perched high in an ancient oak near the temple gates, Rey Yan sat with one leg hooked casually over the branch and the other dangling, his boot tapping against the bark in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. The Qing-styled temple rose with sweeping eaves and carved dragons, silent and dignified against the encroaching dusk, incense smoke curling faintly from within like ghostly fingers.

Rey’s azure hair flickered in the breeze, catching the dying light as his crimsin eyes scanned the grounds below with an expression both bored and sharp. The hilt of PaSa, the cursed blade, glimmered darkly where it rested against his back, wrapped loosely in black cloth. One hand rested lazily on its grip as if by instinct rather than intent.

He exhaled, watching his breath fog in the cooling air, and spoke to himself in a low, sardonic mutter, the hint of a smirk playing across his lips.

"Figures they'd make me wait. War gods, temples, all the same... full of people who like to hear themselves talk."

His gaze narrowed slightly, the fading daylight casting shadows across his sharp features as he tilted his head toward the temple entrance.

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