A few seconds later, the young man finally moved.
"I—I'm goin' to pisssss—don'… don' drink all the wine!" the man mumbled, swaying unsteadily as he staggered away toward a shadowy corner of the outpost.
Han Yu moved.
Like a whisper in the wind, he crept after him, keeping low, glaive in hand, eyes focused.
His movements were precise.
Cold.
Silent.
The man barely noticed. He stood there, relieving himself with a half-lidded, drunken expression, humming some out-of-tune sect hymn.
Han Yu raised a hand.
Soul Needle.
The almost invisible spiritual spike shot forth, stabbing into the man's soul.
His body froze mid-action, eyes wide—but dulled by drink and the numbing effect of the technique. Before the man could even groan, Han Yu was behind him.
A swift stab.
The glaive pierced straight through his heart from the back.
The man twitched once, then slumped. Blood soaked through his robe, but he couldn't even scream.
