Morning mist carried the stench of blood. Chen Wuya's breath condensed into white threads in the cold air. The fingers gripping his broken spear loosened inch by inch, and blood seeped once more from the gash in his palm, sliding down the shaft and dripping onto the gravel by his feet with a soft tap.
Zhao Tianying stood where he was, his gaze sweeping over the valley entrance. The mountain path ahead had collapsed, rubble sealing off their retreat; behind them, shadowy mist churned, and the assassins could return at any moment. He abruptly raised his hand and pointed into the depths of the gorge. "Into the valley! Move!"
The group immediately sprang into motion. Several escorts hoisted up the wounded and hurried into the Valley of Broken Souls. Chen Wuya did not move. He merely lowered his head to stare at the ground—the drop of blood from before was slowly seeping into an exceedingly fine crack, as though something were drinking it in.
Leaning on his cane, Old Wu Tou came to his side and lowered his voice. "Thirty years ago, I watched seven escort teams go in there with my own eyes. Not one came back out. Some say an ancient formation lies buried at the bottom of this valley. Take one wrong step, and the earth itself will bite you."
Chen Wuya looked up toward the mouth of the valley. Gray mist coiled around the rock walls, blotting out the sky. A faint tremor came from beneath his feet, as if something underground were slowly turning. He suddenly spoke. "Wait."
Zhao Tianying halted and looked back at him.
"It wasn't a landslide." Chen Wuya caught his breath, his right leg still throbbing. "It was a mechanism. The intervals between that last wave of falling rocks were far