“我说你这死胖子，是不是又惹事了？”音hashed like ice but robbed of its ability to chill. The voice raidnews through the crackling fire, sharp and impatient. It was Old Man Cang, his face furrowed with wrinkles and his eyes shot like. Two blazing coals, his knuckles white where they gripped the branch of a crude walking stick. He spit a plume of black smoke onto the ground, watching it curl through the air and dissipate in the vaguely hazy morning.

The air in the small, hastily constructed camp was thick with the stench of sweat, smoke, and desperation. Nearby, a younger man lay curled on the ground, the sickly pallor of his face a stark contrast to the fiery red beast already blooming on his arm. It wasn't a minor wound. The eyes of the assembled were drawn to it – a deep, inching, purple bloom spreading with alarming speed. This was why they were gathered here, huddled under the thin canopy of leaves, shivering despite the copious heat radiating from the skeletal remains of two none-too-lively beasts nearby.