Oficial da Guarda do Tigre

Deep in Mount Ji, the sky was overcast and the sun could not be seen.

Zhao Ji stood on a ridgeline, clad in deerskin hunting garb, one hand leaning on an iron halberd, the other on his hip, breathing hard into the wind as he surveyed the ridges near and far, judging direction by the density and sparseness of the trees.

When his breathing had steadied somewhat, he used the halberd to part a patch of weeds and shrubs, then sat down on a large rock in the clearing.

Seeing him sit, the two brown-yellow hounds that followed at his sides settled down, one to the left and one to the right, their heads swiveling as their tails thumped.

Zhao Ji lifted his head to gaze at the lead-colored cloudbank, then lowered it to study the palms and backs of both his hands.

These were his hands. The faint scars on them were all familiar to him, though there were also some new ones.

This body felt more like the merging of several bodies.

As he pondered why he had come here, and the purpose and meaning of the life he now lived, his expression remained blank, yet solemn.

He was certain that a large part of this body was indeed his own: the burn on his foot, the black mole on the right shoulder blade, just within reach of his left hand.

It was the only black mole on his entire body, along with a single long white eyebrow hair growing from the left brow.

What confused him was the change in his features, as though even his face had been fused together from several sources.

How should one describe this face? A proper, upright face.