The aftermath of gold light colliding with silver threads had yet to fade when fresh beads of blood slowly welled from the gash on Chen Wuya's cheek. He did not raise a hand to wipe them away. He merely stared at the severed silver strands trembling faintly in the air ahead, like a spiderweb tossed into disarray by the wind.
The three men opposite him swiftly retreated, their steps crossing as they repositioned themselves. Silver threads extended once more from their fan ribs, snaking across the ground to link the depressions in the floor and form a new net of blockade. One man's arm trembled slightly, clearly injured in the meridians by that last blow, yet he still gritted his teeth and held on, refusing to let a flaw appear in their formation.
Bai Zhi leaned against the stone wall, her right arm hanging limp, her fingertips barely hooked around the sword hilt. Her breathing was ragged, loose strands over her forehead soaked through with sweat and stuck to the corners of her brows. Mo Feng stood sideways in front of her, his folding fan half-open. Moisture gathered without dispersing, yet it was far thinner than before.
Chen Wuya knelt on one knee, his left hand pressed against the seventh depression. A burning sensation came from the cracks in his palm, as if something were flowing beneath his skin. He closed his eyes for an instant. Misaligned Force rampaged through his body, while his Shanzhong Acupoint felt as though it were being pricked by needles and scorched by fire. He knew he could not drag this out any longer. If he waited for them to fully stabilize their formation, they would not even have a chance to counterattack.
Just then, the scroll in his robes gave a faint tremor.
A