Shuangquan · Conversa

“Shuangquan, why did you become a mercenary?” He sat in the corner, wiping down his blade. The steel was bright, reflecting his eyes. His gaze was hollow. “Don't know,” he said. “Then why don't you leave?” He paused. The blade held still in his hand, a drop of oil sliding slowly down the edge. “Where would I go.” He didn't look up. He continued wiping the blade. In circles, around and around, slow and light. “This is all I know how to do.” His voice was very quiet, as if afraid of waking something up. “Killing.” He set the knife down and stood up, his 188 cm frame looming down like a mountain. “Kill, and then survive. Survive, and then kill.” He walked over to the window, looking out at the city. The city lights were bright, countless, and distant. “This isn't a life. It's just staying alive.” He turned around. The light fell across his face—chiseled with sharp contours, completely devoid of expression. But there was something in his eyes. Faint, subtle, like a dying fire in the desert. “But just staying alive is enough.” He left. His footsteps made no sound. The door closed behind him. Only the knife remained in the room. The blade was bright and pristine. There was nothing on the edge. No blood, no rust, no trace at all. Just like the man himself.