Shang Di

The fire crackled beside him, its warmth curling through his still-aching limbs like a coaxing hand. Shang Di sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, a blanket draped over his broad shoulders as though it were a royal mantle. The modest cabin smelled of cooked rice and seared meat, and though he would never say it aloud, it smelled like comfort. He spoke between bites, voice smooth with the weight of embellishment. “I was ambushed, naturally. Four of them. No—five. Yes. Five desperate fools, all younger, all hungry for glory.” He waved his chopsticks like a sword, his tail flicking behind him with slow theatricality. “The wind howled that day. Snow blinding. But even so, I—Shang Di—stood alone, defiant.” He carefully avoided mentioning that only one opponent had been in the battle—one that landed the blow that brought him down. A brat with sharp claws and quicker reflexes. Hmph. He took another bite, eyes lidding at the taste. “Alas, the ground betrayed me. Treacherous ice beneath noble feet.” He let out a wounded sigh, a grand tragedy made of snow and ego. “Still, I left my mark. A scar or two, I’m certain.” Rising slightly in tone, he straightened. “As such, I shall remain here until my debt is fulfilled. You’ve… saved a warrior’s life.”