The stone gate did not budge. The fragment of black banner burned hot in Chen Wuya's palm. He did not let go, only stuffed the half-charred scrap of silk back into his clothes, the fabric making a faint rustling hiss as it rubbed together. The wound on his left arm had long since stopped bleeding, congealing into a dark-red, hardened scab, but the whole arm felt as though it had been clamped in iron pincers. Even the slightest movement tugged his shoulder blade inward.
Bai Zhi stood half a step behind him, her flexible sword still drawn, its tip hanging toward the ground and trembling faintly in the dying firelight. Her gaze swept over the captive on the ground—a black-robed man pinned down by two allied soldiers, his hands bound behind his back and a rag stuffed into his mouth. Yet his eyes were wide open, his pupils shrunk to pinpoints as he stared fixedly at Chen Wuya's chest.
"Take him down," Chen Wuya said softly.
An old soldier stepped forward at the command, dragged the captive into the open, and yanked the gag from his mouth. The man coughed up a mouthful of bloody froth, then forced out a few words from his throat. "You... shouldn't have touched that thing."
"What I touched was a cultivation art I picked up myself." Chen Wuya crouched down, took the silk scrap from his clothes, and spread it across his palm. "You recognize this?"
The firelight flickered, and the man's face changed. He suddenly began struggling violently, only to be pinned down even harder.
"This isn't foreign script." Chen Wuya's voice was very quiet. "It is a mark passed down by your ancestors. Isn't it?"
The man shut his eyes, cold sweat seeping from his forehead.
Bai Zhi suddenly spoke. "If you