The conference room in the Hunter Association headquarters was designed for exactly this purpose: high-level strategic briefings that required privacy, security, and enough space to accommodate people whose mere presence generated atmospheric pressure.
Lóng Hǎifēng sat at the head of the table.
The transformation was still visibly striking quite days after emergence from the 'incident'. He looked forty now instead of seventy. The frail, dying man who'd arrived on Sera Continent had been replaced by something that resembled a martial ideal made physical. Broader shoulders. Dense musculature. And the four arms—two primary, two secondary growing from his expanded ribcage—that marked him as fundamentally other even by Sera standards where unusual physiology wasn't uncommon.
Salt-and-pepper hair. Sharp features. The kind of presence that made people instinctively check his power level and then recalculate their threat assessments.
