Return to Base, Regroup

The yellow sand whirled in the wind, but Chen Wuya did not stop. He had long since swallowed his dry rations, yet the rasp of grit still lingered in his throat. The strip of cloth around the broken blade was blown flat against its spine, its golden thread flashing and vanishing. He walked slowly, every step like treading on red-hot iron, the old wound in his shoulder throbbing with each breath.

But his hand had steadied.

After that confrontation, the Misaligned Force within him had nearly run dry, his meridians like a small river choked by rubble. Relying on the crude breathing method Old Wu Tou had taught him, he slowly guided the remaining currents of qi back to his dantian. The system was strangely quiet; even its usual chattering alerts had fallen silent.

He knew this was no time to force himself.

The outline of the camp gradually came into view. Several tattered flags stood crookedly in the dunes, their corners caked with dust. Figures moved before the camp, sluggishly, as if dragging exhausted bodies along by sheer force of will.

He quickened his pace.

The moment he stepped onto the edge of the position, several sentries looked up. One recognized him; his lips moved, but no sound came out. More people emerged from between the tents, their gazes falling on him—some startled, some carrying the faint relief of a weight lifted.

No one cheered.

The atmosphere was too heavy.

Chen Wuya spotted Bai Zhi at once.

She leaned against a stone slab half-buried in sand, her left shoulder wrapped in bloodstained cloth. Her face was pale, but her fingers still rested on her sword hilt. A military physician was crouched beside her changing the dressing. She turned her head slightly and said something, too softly for him to