The ground sank slightly. Chen Wuya lunged forward with the motion, his shoulder slamming into the slick rock wall. The old wound in his right leg tore open, and a piercing pain shot up his spine. Gritting his teeth, he rolled aside, narrowly avoiding the iron spear that skewered out from a crack in the ground. His palm scraped raw against loose gravel, blood and muddy water sticking between his fingers.
A roar erupted overhead once more. Boulders thundered down, arrows tore through the air. But this time, every impact point was wrong—some lodged halfway in the channels, while others struck half-suspended boulders and bounced to the ground. He looked up. Within the mist, the bronze wheel was slowly turning. Where rust had flaked away, dark blue-green inscriptions were exposed, circles of them glimmering faintly.
"That's it," he said under his breath.
Zhao Tianying stood at the edge of the rock fissure, watching Chen Wuya drag his broken spear as he climbed upward against the boulder chute. His injured leg trembled with every step, yet he never stopped. The deputy escort chief wanted to call out, but Zhao Tianying raised a hand to stop him.
"Let him go." Zhao Tianying's voice was low. "Those rocks just now... they should have crushed three people to death, but every one of them missed."
Old Wu Tou crouched in a corner, lightly tapping the ground with his cane. His gaze rested on the youth's retreating back, and he said nothing.
Chen Wuya climbed the final steep slope and at last reached the wheel. The iron axle was as thick as a bowl's rim, its surface covered in verdigris and cracks, extending deep underground. He pressed a hand against it. The cold pierced to the bone, and blood from his palm seeped into the