Chen Wuya gripped his sword tight, his knuckles whitening from the force. The tremor beyond the northern dunes lasted only a few breaths before vanishing, like an illusion—or some kind of warning. He did not move, his ears still catching the lingering echoes in the wind.
"It's not pursuers," Bai Zhi said quietly. "The footsteps are too light. Not cavalry."
He slowly loosened his grip. The sword tip drooped to the ground, drawing a shallow mark across the stone platform. Blood was still seeping from his shoulder, soaking the cloth with wet heat until it clung tightly around the wound. He drew a deep breath, but the moment he raised his true qi, a stabbing pain shot through his meridians, as though fine needles were threading back and forth inside them.
Bai Zhi caught his arm. "Don't force your qi."
"I know." He gave a bitter smile. "But this body refuses to obey."
She said no more. Turning away, she led over the warhorse and handed him the reins. The two rode together, with her behind him, her arms around his waist and her palm pressed to his back. A thread of warm, gentle inner qi slowly flowed into him, helping stabilize his chaotic meridians.
The mountain path was rough, and every step the horse took felt as if his left shoulder were caught in iron pincers. Chen Wuya gritted his teeth and endured it, his head heavy with dizziness. Along the way, he swayed once and nearly fell from the horse, only for Bai Zhi to pull him close in time.
As the sun dipped westward, the thatched hut at the mouth of the valley finally came into view. A corner of the roof's straw had been blown awry by the previous night's wind, and the cloth curtain hanging