The whistle came again—sharp, vicious.
Jin twisted sideways, blade angling high just in time to deflect the slicing arc that carved through the air toward him. The weapon wasn't a blade, not in the traditional sense—it was a gleaming thread of metal, winding and serpentine, glowing faintly at the edges.
It struck the wall behind him with a snap, leaving a shallow groove in the stone.
A low hum followed. The thread reversed direction, cutting through air like it had a mind of its own.
Jin ducked under it.
The moment it passed overhead, it snapped toward the figure's outstretched hand.
The man caught it effortlessly—no strain, no struggle—and as it reeled in, it began to twist, shift, fold in on itself like a coiled ribbon taking shape.
When it finished forming, it was a scythe.
Not elegant.
Not ceremonial.
