When Chen Wuya pushed open the firewood room door, the sky was just beginning to pale gray-white. He did not look back at the pile of straw bedding, merely swung his patched bundle over his shoulder and strode steadily toward the front courtyard. The strip of cloth tucked into his shoe's inner sole pressed against the bottom of his foot like a coal that could never burn through—not hot enough to scald, yet heavy enough that every step reminded him exactly where he was going.
The leather armor was somewhat tight, its tears chafing his arms, but he deliberately did not smooth them out. Black grime still lingered beneath the nails he had smeared with charcoal ash, and he had purposefully rubbed a few streaks of dirt onto his face. He wanted to look like a rough man who had spent years running field assignments, not a menial who had just crawled out of the stables.
Quite a few people were already gathered outside the side chamber of the main hall. The morning wind swept dust into spirals across the stone paving. Several escort guards stood against the walls with their weapons in their arms, their expressions solemn. This was where they answered roll call each day, and Zhao Tianying always gave orders and made deployments here. Chen Wuya stood at the back of the crowd, neither approaching nor retreating, like a wooden stake driven into the earth, silently waiting for his chance.
Before long, the sound of heavy boots striking the ground drew nearer. Everyone immediately straightened. A burly figure passed through the corridor pillars, draped in a crimson cloak, his Fang Tian Ji planted on the ground with a dull thud. Zhao Tianying had arrived.
He swept his gaze over the ranks, his eyes pausing on several unfamiliar