The sun blazed mercilessly over the Burning Sun Pavilion, its golden rays scattering across the tiled roofs and shimmering banners that danced in the desert wind. The air was thick with heat and the faint scent of incense that wafted through the open corridors. Inside the central hall, a young man sat cross-legged before an ornate bronze table, his eyes half-closed, brows furrowed in deep thought.
Ron Lee had been sitting there for hours, unmoving, the shadows shifting slowly across the marble floor as the sun inched westward. The tea in front of him had long gone cold, yet his mind burned hotter than ever — a whirlwind of unanswered questions and uneasy suspicions.
He had not seen Mo Han, Jia Kai, or Fatty Lambu — the ridiculous fellow the Pavilion disciples called "Hairless Pimple" — for three days. No farewell, no message, no clue. Just gone.
