The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when the first rhythmic thumping of the drums began to vibrate through the stone floor of Lin Wan's cottage. It wasn't the steady, war-like beat of the North; this was a syncopated, restless Southern rhythm that felt like a heartbeat.
"Weiwei, tell me the truth," Lin Wan muttered, staring at herself in the small, polished bronze mirror she'd coaxed out of the system. "Do I look like I'm about to be sacrificed or celebrated?"
[Statistically, Host, you look like a high-value asset in a state of moderate repair,]Weiwei's voice chirped, sounding refreshed after Lin's "rice and spice" bribe from the night before.
[The inflammation is down 80%. With the hair crown and the mask, you look less like a plague victim and more like a mysterious noblewoman. Though, I must remind you, the baby's nutritional demands are spiking. Don't forget to eat.]
