The sea was still trembling, the aftershock of the falling water pillar spreading outward in rippling rings. Chen Wuya stood at the bow, his left hand pressed against the mark on his left arm. The pattern was still faintly hot, like a fuse that had just been lit.
He did not turn around, but he knew Bai Zhi and Mo Feng were both still standing where they were. That dragon had appeared too suddenly—so suddenly that even the wind had stopped, the birds had ceased to fly, and the entire sea seemed to have had its breath pinned down by something.
But he knew this was no time to stand around in a daze.
After the dragon's shadow sank beneath the sea, the vague outline of an altar surfaced upon the water, the ripples around it refusing to fade. He stared at it, then suddenly noticed three black dots rapidly closing in over the distant horizon.
Not ships, nor birds.
People.
Walking on the waves.
The three wore leather armor of a foreign tribe, curved sabers hanging from their waists. The leader bore an old scar running from his brow bone to his chin. They moved with astonishing speed, crossing dozens of zhang over the sea in only a few steps. When they landed, not a single splash rose beneath their feet.
"Target confirmed." One of them spoke, his voice hoarse. "It's him."
Chen Wuya did not move. His hand slowly fell to his side. He could feel the flow of the Canglang Art within him slowing, like seawater before the ebb tide, gathering its strength.
The three spread out, forming a triangle around the little boat. The man in the middle flipped his right hand, and a dark crimson glow bloomed in his palm. True qi surged, turning even