“That is unacceptable,” Xiang Heng replied. He stood straight and tall in his resplendent clothing of fine and colorful silk, his jet-black guan making him seem even more imposing. When he looked down at the broken man, not a single hair was out of place and his face was not flushed with the killing of twelve men with his bare hands nor from the heat of the fire, but there were flames in his eyes.

“…’s gone,” the broken man forced out. Blood followed.

Xiang Heng frowned. It was the first real expression of displeasure he had yet shown; before he had been dispassionate, even detached, from the destruction he wrought. “One thousand years was not enough to turn me from this course,” he told the broken man. “What good will your defiance do?”

This time the broken man could speak no more. His vision clouded with darkness that merged with the climbing clouds.

“One thousand years,” he heard Xiang Heng say again. “One thousand years.”