The vicious beast's tail tip scored a fine line across the ground, like a carving knife lightly scraping bluestone, leaving behind a nearly imperceptible mark. Chen Wuya's pupils contracted, the Misaligned Force in his palm trembling faintly—not because of his injuries, but because that familiar sensation of reverse deduction rose again in his sea of consciousness—the system was reverse-analyzing the mark before him into a "rhythmic pivot point about to collapse."
He said nothing. He merely slowly raised his hand, spread his fingers, then curled them inward in a rotating gesture.
Bai Zhi's sword tip twitched. Rather than pouncing at once, she retreated half a step and lowered her breathing to the faintest whisper. She understood that gesture: wait.
Mo Feng leaned against the edge of a broken stele, bracing his folding fan against his chest as he pushed himself upright. Blood still stained the corner of his mouth, yet he gave a cold laugh. His fan trembled lightly, and several droplets spilled through its gaps, splashing onto the ground in irregular scattered specks.
The descendants of the guardians exchanged a glance. One knelt on the ground, propped up by his blade and gasping for breath; the other gritted his teeth and rose, weapon held across his body, no longer rushing to attack.
They understood.
This was not a contest to strike first. They were waiting for an opening.
The vicious beast crouched low on all fours, the scales along its back rising one after another like an overturning turtle shell. Its breathing became slow and deep. With every inhalation, the air around it seemed to draw taut, even the dust hanging motionless; with every exhalation, the cracks in the ground stretched another fraction. It was weaving its rhythm anew, trying to piece its disrupted fragments of technique back together