Chen Wuya's fingers brushed the edge of the tattered scroll. The wound beneath the cloth wrapping was still seeping blood, but he paid it no mind. The fire was nearly dead, leaving only a faint red ember that cast a slanting shadow across his palm.
He raised his head, his voice quiet. "Three days is too long. I'll give you one hour."
The figure leaning against the stone wall did not move. His cloak draped to the ground like a patch of congealed night. But after a moment, a hand clad in a gray cloth glove rose and slowly lifted one corner of the mask.
Half a face was revealed.
He was neither the withered old man Chen Wuya had imagined nor a cold-faced, iron-hearted tomb keeper. His face had been burned, the flesh twisted and scarred. His left eye was sealed shut, while a crack ran from the corner of his right eye all the way to his ear. Yet that open eye shone with startling brilliance.
"It isn't you I trust," he said. His voice was no longer hoarse, but low and heavy, like a stone mill grinding beneath the earth. "I trust that it chose you."
He turned, took out the jade plaque from his robes, and pressed it into an indentation in the stone wall. The ground shuddered lightly. A hidden door split open beneath their feet, and a cold gust rushed out to meet them, carrying the damp, earthy reek of soil and the scent of rusted metal.
Bai Zhi stepped half a pace forward, one hand on her sword hilt as her gaze swept over the dark, bottomless passage. She said nothing, but her body had already tilted forward slightly, ready to draw her sword at any moment.
"You're leading the way?" Chen Wuya