The trap had been set with precision born of exhaustion and necessity.
Qingran crouched low behind the warped metal shelves of the pharmacy, her breathing shallow, her hands steady despite the bruising ache in her ribs.
Glass shards, ripped wiring, and scavenged accelerants, all arranged in a tight kill zone around the entrance.
The moment the first cultist broke through the doorway, the trap went off.
A blinding flash.
Then a shriek.
The explosion tore through the entrance with controlled fury. Shrapnel burst outward, catching the first wave of cultists in the throat and chest.
Three dropped instantly, their cries cut short by the jagged remnants of Qingran's trap.
The others, startled, stumbled back, coughing in the rising smoke.
She moved.
With her azure flames coiling low and silent in her palm, Qingran launched herself into the fray before the shock wore off.
Her body screamed with every impact, but the rhythm was familiar now.
Burn, dodge, strike.
