Dust rose at the distant mountain pass.
Chen Wuya stood beside the pile of firewood, still holding the last oil-paper packet in his hand. The wind blew in from the north, carrying the grit of sand and stone as it scraped across the old scars on his knuckles. He neither loosened his grip nor looked back. He simply tucked the packet of medicine deep into the woodpile, pressing it beneath the fractured strands of true qi.
Bai Zhi stood half a step behind him, her gaze resting on his shoulder. The edges of the cloth strips changed last night had already frayed, yet his back remained as straight as ever.
"They're here," she said.
He nodded and turned toward the house. His travel pack hung behind the door, his sword above the bed. He took down the sword and fastened his belt, his movements without pause. When he emerged again, he was a different man—not the recluse hiding in a small courtyard, but a guide who had donned his fighting spirit once more.
The two set foot on the mountain path side by side.
The trees along the way were sparse, and broken stones carpeted the ground. Scattered tents had already been pitched halfway up the mountain. The campfires had not yet gone out, and several groups of disciples sat on the ground, their expressions varied. Some recognized him and stood to stare; some lowered their heads to avoid his gaze; others, young-faced, whispered among themselves, "That's the 'crooked-reason sword' who got thrown out of the academy?"
Chen Wuya heard them and paid them no mind.
But Bai Zhi's steps paused slightly, her fingertips brushing the hilt of her sword as if she wanted to speak but held back.
He merely said, "Let them look their fill."
At the end