The door curtain was lifted, and at last its owner stepped inside. He was a towering man, broad-shouldered and thick-backed, his sturdy frame wrapped in coarse fighting clothes. One cuff was torn open, revealing old scars twisting beneath. He came to a stop, his gaze sweeping across the room before finally settling on Chen Wuya.
"It's me," he said, his voice low yet open. "Han Tianba."
Chen Wuya did not move. His left hand remained pressed against the table's edge. The blood patterns in his palm had slowed their throbbing, but they had not vanished. He stared into the man's eyes for a moment before speaking. "The flow of qi within you was severed three times. The last was at your left ribs—the handiwork of the Blood Demon Art. How did you survive?"
Han Tianba froze, then broke into a grin. "Sharp eyes. Back then, I was knocked off a cliff. A metal token caught the blade, and that's how I snatched my life back." He untied half a ruined token from his waist and tossed it onto the table. "See? It's still here, isn't it?"
Bai Zhi stood slightly behind and to the side, her hand never leaving her sword hilt. She looked at the twisted iron token, then at Han Tianba's face—there was neither evasion nor concealment there.
Chen Wuya slowly loosened his fingers. "Old Wu Tou told you?"
"He did." Han Tianba nodded. "Last night, he stumbled into the camp, covered in sand and dirt. Without saying a word, he dropped to his knees. Only after he caught his breath did he call out your name. I asked what had happened, and he said you'd been surrounded, your shoulder was injured, and you'd stayed up all night drawing some damned saber diagrams." He paused, his voice dropping.