Qingran froze. The faint warmth of the newborn's cries still echoed behind them, but Lingquan's words cut through it like ice.
Her jaw tightened. "…What do you mean, greater loss?"
Lingquan's form flickered, the faint hum of his voice carrying both apology and inevitability. "The system balances gain with sacrifice. Missions no longer anchor your progress. So if I provide you shelter, food, protection, it must come from you. The harsher the request, the steeper the price."
Qingran's stomach twisted. Her mouth went dry. "Fine. Then take something else. Anything else. Just not—"
Lingquan didn't let her finish. His voice dropped, final and unyielding. "The exchange is your arm. Half of it. Flesh, blood, bone. You will feel everything. That is the least brutal cost I can find."
For a moment, the world tilted. The acidic wind pressed into her lungs, stinging her eyes. She staggered back a step, clutching her left arm as if she could shield it from him.
