The heavy, metallic scent of blood had spent the last few hours clinging to the walls of the small hut like a physical weight. It was the kind of smell that got into the back of the throat and stayed there, a constant reminder of the violence that had unfolded. But as the minutes passed following Huang Bantian’s arrival, that oppressive atmosphere began to shift. The copper tang of gore didn’t just fade; it was systematically replaced. A cool, damp scent—the fragrance of deep forest soil and crushed ferns—began to drift through the room, as if the floorboards were suddenly breathing in the essence of the mountain outside.
Outside the thin wooden walls, the world had fallen into an unnatural, absolute silence. For hours, the night had been a cacophony of scratching claws, guttural whispers
