The car pulled over by the roadside. After paying the fare, Amon pushed open the door, got out, and headed straight for the subway station.
Watching his receding figure finally vanish into the darkness, the driver could not help muttering, "Could he have heard those spooky rumors and come all this way looking for thrills?"
He shook his head, turned the wheel, and drove back the way he had come.
In October, the night wind in Beijing already carried a chill, howling as it swept through the deserted streets. Amon fastened the buttons at the front of his wool overcoat, its hem snapping in the wind.
He walked alone beneath the dim yellow streetlights, his shadow stretching long behind him. His overcoat was a classic cut, sharply tailored, its collar raised high enough to hide half his face and reveal only a pair of eyes that shone especially brightly in the night.
His footsteps were neither hurried nor slow. His leather shoes rustled over withered yellow leaves, the sound clear in the silent night. His gaze remained fixed on the abandoned subway entrance in the distance, sunk in deeper darkness, its outline barely discernible.
There were almost no pedestrians around. Only the wind threaded through the bare branches, letting out mournful howls. The neon clamor of the distant city was torn into indistinct fragments by the wind, making this place seem all the more desolate and lonely.
The subway entrance was like a silent giant mouth, swallowing the faint light and exuding an eerie mystery that warned the living to stay away. Amon approached step by step, gradually merging into the darker shadows.
Fenrir's Nibelungen would not reject someone bearing Jormungandr's mark.
Amon could vaguely sense subtle changes taking place in the surrounding space. Light and shadow blurred, blue-gray mist