Experts Retreat, Morale Soars

The fleck of gray-gold light at the tip of the broken blade was like dying fire in the wind, wavering yet refusing to go out. Chen Wuya's fingers were still trembling, but his palm remained pressed against the sand. He could feel as though the meridians within him had been ground by grit and stone; Misaligned Force crawled laboriously through his ruined channels. The poison had yet to clear, and every breath tugged a dull ache from deep within his ribs. But he remained standing.

Wu Chi remained standing as well.

The commander of the Northern Desert Iron Ridge Army knelt on one knee in the sand. His right hand clawed desperately around the haft of the axe lodged in a crack in the rock, while his left arm braced against the ground. Blood flowed from the corner of his mouth, dripped down his chin, and burned tiny pits into the yellow sand. He panted like a wounded wolf, his chest heaving violently, yet his gaze remained nailed to Chen Wuya, unwilling to shift even half an inch.

"You..." His voice was hoarse. "What kind of wicked art are you using?"

Chen Wuya did not answer. He merely slowly raised his foot and took a step forward.

The sand trembled faintly.

With that step, three hidden lines of vibration seeped into the earth again, spreading along the cracks left behind earlier and silently locking down Wu Chi's feet and the point where his weapon landed. Chen Wuya said nothing more, nor did he need to. His earlier question—"Have you ever thought—"—had not been a question at all, but a declaration.

His path had never followed common sense.

Wu Chi suddenly exerted himself, trying to pull free his axe and rise. But the layer of sand beneath his feet abruptly softened,