The leader of the invading men—broad shoulders layered with sun-toughened muscle, three natural stripes wrapped around each arm like fierce animal marks earned through blood, war, and evolution—stared up at Zyran with a deep frown.
These weren't painted lines or carved decorations.
No.
Each stripe was a beast-mark, a clear sign of status and power—gifts awakened only after surviving life-threatening trials, killing something stronger than yourself, or breaking past a cultivation wall with your body alone. They were said to burn into the skin like molten iron when awakened, glowing red-hot before settling into permanent, ink-black bands.
One stripe meant: novice warrior.
Two stripes meant: elite hunter.
Three stripes meant: someone strong enough to kill a mountain lion with bare hands.
This man?
He had three on each arm.
His expression said, Who the hell is this flamboyant menace on a tree?
Zyran only smiled back like he'd been waiting all week for someone to ask.
