After the Ruins, Chaos Erupts in the Alien Royal Court

The wind whipped sand grains against his face. Chen Wuya sat beside the wreckage of a flagpole, eyes closed as he regulated his breathing. The Misaligned Practice Connects to Spirit system slowly circulated within him, drawing the chaotic true qi back into his meridians thread by thread. Blood still seeped from the wound on his left arm, soaking through the cloth binding it. He did not move, only forced his breathing to its lowest ebb.

Bai Zhi stood some distance away, her flexible sword returned to its sheath as her gaze swept across the edge of the battlefield. Scattered fires had been lit, and the allied army was clearing up the aftermath. Suddenly, she turned toward the northern end of the snowfields—the direction of the foreign tribes' royal court.

"The beacon towers have gone out," she said.

Chen Wuya opened his eyes and followed her gaze. Three beacon towers had gone dark in succession, with no sign of being relit. By all reason, urgent messages should have been sent after a battle, yet the entire defensive line now lay as silent as death.

He rose to his feet, but his footing slipped. An old injury tugged at his ribs, drawing a muffled groan from him. Bai Zhi frowned. "Can you still hold on?"

"It isn't about holding on," he said quietly. "I have to stay awake."

He walked to the ruined base of the watchtower, bracing both hands against a broken wooden post as he sent Misaligned Force probing into the air. Fine waves of vibration spread along the currents, magnifying the activity a hundred zhang away severalfold and feeding it into his senses—chaotic winds from the southeast, mixed with the scrape of metal and the tremor of hoofbeats. The rhythm was steady. It did not sound like a rout.