Chen Wuya braced a hand against the mud, his fingertips sinking into the wet earth. He raised his face and saw firelight flickering in the distance.
Voices drew nearer, footsteps crunching dry branches and pebbles. A crowd of townsfolk surged out from the town entrance, holding torches, hoes, shoulder poles, and iron pitchforks as they ran and shouted, "The Demonic Cult fiends have fallen from the sky!" "Don't let them get away!"
Firelight lit their faces—old and young alike, their eyes filled with fury. A middle-aged man leapt onto a dirt mound and pointed at the three of them, roaring, "It's them! That ship that fell from the sky just now must be some evil artifact of the Demonic Cult!"
Mo Feng had only just struggled to his feet. Hearing that, he nearly sat right back down. "We're running for our lives, not here to hurt anyone." He patted the smoking shell of the mechanical boat, trying to explain, but no one listened.
Bai Zhi rose to her feet, one hand resting on her sword hilt. She glanced at Chen Wuya and found him staring at the torches.
The flames danced, heat streaming upward. Chen Wuya closed his eyes. Within his sea of consciousness, the last thread of force from the Chaos Art slowly circulated. He could no longer feel any strength in his limbs, but the Misaligned Force still coursed through his meridians, like a thin stream that refused to go out.
He understood that he could not fight now. These people were not enemies. They had simply been afraid for too long.
He opened his eyes and slowly raised both hands, palms facing the nearest torches. The Misaligned Force traveled through the air and seeped into the roots of the flames. He did not extinguish them. Instead, he