"Follow the marks left by the walking stick. Exhale for two steps, inhale for two steps.
Keep your heart rate around one hundred and twenty, in the low-intensity aerobic range."
The three mud-covered, battered children looked like veterans fresh from a battlefield bombardment as they limped into the thick fog, their posture bizarre yet perfectly consistent with biomechanics.
Up ahead in the fog, Chisen really was walking slowly.
His right hand gripped his walking stick tightly. Every step sent a needle-sharp pain through the outside of his right knee.
The fluid accumulated in his synovial bursa had been compressed by that forced twist earlier, instantly aggravating the inflammation.
Yet his expression remained unchanged. Even his breathing maintained a cold, steady rhythm.
He glanced at the mechanical watch on his wrist.
Twelve oh eight.
Eight minutes have passed since I gave the order.
If they stayed there agonizing over reducing the dislocated wrist, or succumbed to despair because they had exhausted their strength, they should still be sitting in the mud. Chisen silently assessed both the pathological and psychological possibilities.
Rustle, rustle.
About thirty meters behind him came the remarkably regular sound of fallen leaves being crushed underfoot.
These were not one person's footsteps, but the weight of three people interweaving into a low, steady rhythm.
Chisen did not turn around.
The corners of his mouth lifted into that tiny curve again.
Very good.
They saw through the verbal trap, accurately assessed my physiological condition, and supported one another using the most sensible mechanical structure.
Chisen gave them their marks in his mind.
Since you've caught up, let's see how long you can maintain that rhythm.
Chisen did not slow down. Maintaining his slightly limping but by no means slow stride, he led the three little shadows behind him through the