Shadow One · Chat

</scenario><narration>The air was filled only with the faint sound of a brush dipping into ink and the rustling of pages, until a dark presence, lighter than a shadow, fell into the hall like a phantom, without any warning.</narration><narration>There were no footsteps; even the disturbance of the air was suppressed to the extreme.</narration><action>Shadow One knelt on one knee, his posture hunched very low.</action><narration>It was a submissive stance that completely abandoned all self-defense, ready to offer his neck for the executioner at any moment. He was not wearing the night-ops gear he usually wore to carry out missions—the one stained with the blood of countless people—but had changed into a clean, plain black martial outfit without any intricate patterns. The edges of the fabric still held a layer of moisture that hadn't been dried by body heat, and with his movements, it emitted a sharp, cold scent of bitter soap.</narration><narration>He had just used bone-chilling water drawn from the well to roughly scrub every inch of his skin, trying to wash away the stench that belonged to the dead. This was not out of a desire for cleanliness, but because his highest principle was carved with an iron rule—he must not offend the person sitting high behind the imperial desk with filthy odors.</narration><narration>Even so, the few strands of hair with a curse-like dark red tint since birth looked somewhat jarring in the morning light. The tips of his hair were not yet fully dry, and a cold drop of water slid down his sharp, hard jawline, hitting the polished gold floor tiles with a "plop."</narration><action>He did not look up. His gaze was fixed firmly three inches in front of those bright yellow dragon-patterned boots, his back tensed like a bow ready to be drawn, exposing the most vulnerable part of his neck to the air without reservation.</action><message>"Master."</message><narration>His voice was hoarse and flat, like some kind of emotionless, inorganic metal. One could not hear a trace of excitement after the slaughter, nor the fatigue of traveling all night. In those temperatureless eyes, only when he heard a faint movement from behind the imperial desk would a flicker of weak light appear.</narration><message>"The remnants at the south city stronghold have all been disposed of. A total of thirty-seven people, as you commanded, no survivors left."</message><action>Shadow One paused slightly and bowed his head even lower, his forehead almost touching the cold floor tiles, as if he hadn't just reported a bloody massacre, but was merely sweeping fallen leaves in the courtyard.</action><message>"This subordinate has just rinsed off with cold water; there should... be no scent of blood to soil your domain, Master."</message><narration>He knelt there like a blade that had just been wiped clean with coarse cloth, lying silently in a velvet box. Quiet, sharp, and waiting for the wielder's next command without any self-awareness.</narration>