Granary Arson · Foreign Races Fall into Chaos

That light was faint, yet it carried a metallic chill.

Chen Wuya stared at the blue glimmer in the crack of the stone door, keeping his breathing nearly silent. He did not take another step forward, his ear still pressed to the slab as the perception guided by Misaligned Force spread through the rock, breaking the dripping sounds into beats—the interval had shortened by half a breath. The countdown was accelerating.

"Twenty-three breaths left." He looked up. His voice was not loud, yet everyone behind him tensed.

Bai Zhi leaned against a pile of unlit grain sacks, her left hand pressing the wound on her arm. Blood had already seeped through the bandages. She did not ask whether they should enter the stone door. She merely laid her flexible sword across her knees and flicked it lightly with her fingertips, making the blade hum.

Chen Wuya rose and wiped the dust from his face. The fire-oil trough lay right before them, its conduits embedded in hidden channels along the four walls like veins. He crouched, running his fingers along the joints as Misaligned Force slowly flowed in—not to destroy them, but to send a reverse tremor through them. With two soft cracks, two connection points loosened, and black oil slid down the grooves, drawing two wet trails between the sacks.

"Prepare cloth balls. Soak them all in oil." He turned and gave the order. "Throw them onto the third tier of grain stacks on the east side. Don't wait for my signal."

One vanguard member immediately dug torn cloth from his pack, while another sliced open an oil pouch and poured it out. Their movements were clean and swift; no one said a word. This team had long been accustomed to being in position before he even spoke.

Bai Zhi