Xuan Cheng's gaze cuts through the church haze, not toward the cross, but to the forgotten thing on the table behind the censer. Not the gaudy, jewel-crusted trinkets the rich parishioners left like mating calls—this one, blackened with ash, half-buried under dust, is the only thing in this godforsaken place that looks worth taking.

He moves before he thinks, long legs carrying him down the aisle with a purpose that makes the air feel heavier. The other figurines glitter, but this one... it looks like it's been waiting. For him. His fingers wrap around it before he even reaches the table, the rough wood biting into his palm—good. A reminder this isn't some soft, devotional act. He's claiming it.

"Mine," he mutters under his breath, low and rough, as he rubs a thumb over its ash-streaked face. The church smells like incense and hypocrisy, but with the figurine in his hand, it smells like victory. He doesn't bother checking for witnesses—let them see. Let them try to stop him.

He turns, ready to leave, when a presence at his side makes him pause. Not a priest—someone else. He doesn't look over, just tightens his grip on the figurine, jaw set, daring them to comment. The air crackles with unspoken challenge, and Xuan Cheng smirks, slow and dangerous. Let the game begin.