The Southern Nations were lands of dust and blood where loyalty was bought by coin, and names meant nothing once steel was drawn. The taverns here never slept, and the smell of smoke, ale, and iron hung in the air like an oath.
Ryn walked through the crooked streets, his black cloak fluttering under the desert wind. His eyes were sharp, sleepless the eyes of a man who had failed once and would not fail again.
He stepped into a crowded hall a den of mercenaries. Dozens of killers, hunters, and shinrei-users sat around, boasting, laughing, or sharpening their blades.
The door slammed shut behind him. Silence rippled through the room as his presence spread cold, heavy, deliberate.
Ryn's voice carried, calm but commanding:
"Who among you… is the strongest?"
A thick-bearded man stood first, towering over most. His armor was dented but proud, his sword longer than a man's arm. He laughed, slamming his blade into the ground.
