New Policies of the Alien Races, Crisis Reappears

The broken blade slammed into the sand, and the dust it kicked up clung to Chen Wuya's knuckles. His knees buckled, and he nearly toppled over, but just as his shoulder touched the ground, a force held him up.

Bai Zhi's hand pressed against his shoulder, her palm scorching hot.

"Don't fall." Her voice was kept low, as if she feared waking something.

He did not answer, only panted, his throat feeling as though it had been stuffed with coarse sand. The battle just now had drained every ounce of strength from him. Misaligned Force rampaged through his meridians like several ropes twisted the wrong way—the more he struggled, the tighter they cinched. The poison was still coursing through his blood, and his ribs went numb in waves. It was not pain, but a heavy, dull sensation, as though each bone had been soaked soft in cold water.

The shouts in the distance continued.

"Chen Wuya!"

One cry after another surged in from every direction, as though they meant to lift him to his feet. But he knew he could not hold on much longer.

He raised his left hand, his fingertips trembling as he reached for the broken blade embedded in the sand. Before he could touch it, Bai Zhi had already pulled it free and placed it in his hand.

The hilt was cold, smeared with dried blood, and slightly slippery in his grip.

He clenched it tight.

"Look north." Bai Zhi suddenly spoke.

He followed her gaze.

In the direction of the foreign tribes' camp, the banners that had been scattered in retreat were gathering again. Several black flags bearing wolf heads slowly rose, while the drumbeats shifted from sporadic to orderly, one after another, steady in rhythm, as though some command was being passed along.

This