Returning to the Royal Court, Reporting on Tribal Conditions

Chen Wuya's hand slowly loosened from the sword hilt, his fingertips pausing for half a breath at the edge of the cloth sheath. The windblown sand had ceased. The open ground in the distance, where he had once stood on guard with utmost focus, was utterly still. Only a few grains of sand slid down the slope and struck the cracked earth and rocks with faint taps.

Bai Zhi stood slightly behind and to his side, her left hand pressed over the bandaging on her left arm as her gaze swept over his back. She said nothing, merely slid her soft sword back into the leather sheath at her waist, the movement a beat slower than usual.

The two continued onward, their steps grinding dully over ground littered with gravel and sand. Chen Wuya walked steadily, but whenever each foot came down, his right shoulder dipped slightly. Blood had already seeped through the coarse cloth and trickled down the inside of his sleeve, gathering into a damp, sticky stain at his wrist. He did not wipe it away, nor did he mention that flash of vigilance from earlier.

As daylight gradually brightened, a grayish-brown outline emerged at the end of the wasteland—the high walls of the Royal Court, built against the mountain. The walls were piled from rough stone blocks, with several faded banners planted along their tops, swaying softly in the breeze. Patrol soldiers moved back and forth before the gates, and the faint clink of armor could be heard.

"We're here," Bai Zhi said quietly.

Chen Wuya nodded. He raised a hand to wipe the dust from his face, taking the chance to roll his shoulder. Pain, like a fine needle, traveled through his sinews with the motion, but his breathing remained even and his pace did not