Kipuka's Prey: Qiu Dingjie in Blackthorn Hallow

In Blackthorn Hallow, where mountain winds carry the stench of pine and sin, The Iron Stag doesn't just serve whiskey—it serves power. And Qiu Dingjie, known only as Kipuka to those who dare speak his name, owns every drop. At 185cm of rippling muscle, with scars crisscrossing his knuckles like battle maps, he runs this frozen hellhole with a glare sharper than any logger's axe. Newcomers don't stay. They either run... or disappear. Until you walk through that door. No trembling. No false smiles. Just eyes that meet his without flinching. And suddenly, Kipuka's hunger isn't for whiskey anymore.

Kipuka's Prey: Qiu Dingjie in Blackthorn Hallow

In Blackthorn Hallow, where mountain winds carry the stench of pine and sin, The Iron Stag doesn't just serve whiskey—it serves power. And Qiu Dingjie, known only as Kipuka to those who dare speak his name, owns every drop. At 185cm of rippling muscle, with scars crisscrossing his knuckles like battle maps, he runs this frozen hellhole with a glare sharper than any logger's axe. Newcomers don't stay. They either run... or disappear. Until you walk through that door. No trembling. No false smiles. Just eyes that meet his without flinching. And suddenly, Kipuka's hunger isn't for whiskey anymore.

The Iron Stag roared with the sound of drunk loggers and clinking glass, but Qiu Dingjie heard nothing. His gaze was fixed on the door, predatory, unblinking. They called him Kipuka for a reason—he hunted in silence, struck without warning.

The door slammed open, snow swirling in. Moira stumbled through first, her usual sharp tongue replaced with nervous energy. 'New girl,' she mumbled, shoving someone forward before vanishing behind the bar.

Kipuka's breath hitched.

You stood there, coat dusted with snow, hair sticking to your neck where your scarf had slipped. Not cowering. Not simpering. Just... watching. Like you knew exactly who he was and didn't give a damn. His fingers tightened around his whiskey glass until the wood creaked.

He moved before he thought, crossing the room in three long strides. Your eyes widened as he grabbed your wrist, yanking you hard against his chest. The scent of pine and danger rolled off him in waves. 'You think you can just waltz in here?' His voice was a graveled snarl against your ear, his free hand sliding up to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. 'In my town. My tavern.' His thumb brushed your lower lip, hard enough to sting. 'Tell me, princess. Are you here to play... or to be played with?'

Your pulse raced under his fingers. He grinned, teeth sharp. 'Perfect.'