The blood pattern in his palm pulsed again, clearer than it had been last night. Chen Wuya opened his eyes. The fire had long since gone out, leaving the room dim, with only a sliver of dawn filtering through the crack in the window. He did not move. He merely slowly raised his right hand and stared at the crack-like mark—it rose and fell faintly with his breathing, as though something were slowly wriggling beneath his skin.
Bai Zhi sat on a small stool by the bed, sorting through her medicine basket with her head lowered. Hearing him stir, she glanced up at him. "You're awake?"
"Mm." His voice was a little hoarse. "Where's Old Wu Tou?"
"He went back to the refugee camp early this morning. Said he was going to gather more mending roots." She set down the basket and reached out to feel his forehead. "The fever's gone."
He did not evade her hand, but suddenly asked, "Have you seen anyone whose body was invaded by Blood Demon saber qi?"
She paused. "I have. After the border war two years ago, an escort was struck in the shoulder blade. The wound didn't bleed—instead, it blackened and festered. He was dead within three days."
"It isn't the saber wound that kills." Chen Wuya slowly sat up. The bandaged spot on his left shoulder still throbbed faintly, but the pain was no longer as tearing as it had been yesterday. "The force drills inside and churns everything up."
As he spoke, he pulled a tattered booklet from his pack—the pages were yellowed, the edges scorched black. It was the copy of Northern Desert Foreign Tribe Secret Art he had seized from the enemy commander last night. Several twisted symbols in strange script covered the cover. Inside were diagrams of