The wind swept through the Withered Forest. Chen Wuya crouched behind a tree root, his gaze piercing through gaps in the branches and leaves. The smoke column west of the refugee camp had weakened, leaving only a thread of gray-white drifting low through the air. He did not move. His right hand rested on the hilt of the wooden sword at his waist, while his left slowly drew a stack of thin papers from his robe—every sheet densely covered in writing, the ink long dry, the edges fuzzed from repeated folding.
These were the letters he had written in the dyehouse last night, driving the brush with Misaligned Force. His true qi had run backward through his meridians, making his fingertips tremble faintly. Every stroke seemed crooked, on the verge of toppling over, yet each character stood clear and forceful enough to press through the paper. The contents mixed jianghu cant with the stock phrases of officialdom, directly accusing Yan Song of secretly colluding with the Northern Desert and using the name of the "Heavenly Machine Scroll" to purge dissidents. They even listed the unreported comings and goings of three black-clad men at the northern posthouse seven days earlier.
He had never intended to hide them.
Bai Zhi came swiftly down the southern path, her footfalls so light they barely disturbed the fallen leaves. She stopped five paces away from him and said softly, "Everything is arranged with the censor's disciples. All three are willing to take the risk. Greenwood's eyes are in place too. Copies will be posted on the walls in the western market and eastern ward by midnight at the latest."
Chen Wuya nodded and handed her one of the copies. "Deliver one yourself to the reporting box in front of the Drum of Grievances. Don't let