The door shuddered. Chen Wuya's hand was still pressed to the hilt of his blade, his knuckles white from gripping it too long. The footsteps outside had stopped, yet no one had retreated. He slowly released his grip. The scorch mark on his palm faintly burned with each breath, as though the Misaligned Force within him were still wandering through his body.
Without lifting his head, he heard the rustle of straw mats. Bai Zhi sat up against the wall. Her breath was still weak, but she could already open her eyes. Old Wu Tou crouched beside the firepit, poking at the stone-cold medicine pot with his cane. His movements were slow, but his gaze kept flicking toward the door.
A clamor of footsteps came from outside, drawing nearer—not one person, but a whole group. The wooden door was violently shoved open, slamming into the wall with a dull thud. Seven or eight martial artists stood outside, weapons in hand. At their head was a young steward from the Green City Sect, anger written across his face.
"Chen Wuya!" the man shouted. "The three-day deadline isn't up, and you already dare refuse arrest? The elders may not have ordered a forced assault, but this refugee camp is harboring wanted criminals, making you equally guilty! Move aside. We're searching the place!"
Old Wu Tou rose with his cane, his slight, gaunt frame blocking the doorway. His voice was hoarse. "This is a place where refugees shelter, not some practice ground for your swords. If you want to use force, first ask whether these old bones of mine will allow it."
"You're courting death?" The steward sneered, drawing his sword halfway. Cold light flashed.
Chen Wuya suddenly rose. His steps were unsteady, yet he walked firmly to Old Wu Tou's side. He