Chen Wuya pressed his palm against the rock wall, his fingertips feeling the tremors rising from underground. The blood pattern was no longer creeping; it had sunk into the inside of his wrist like a red-hot iron plate pressed into his flesh. He said nothing, only shifted his left foot half a step forward.
Five disciples skilled in lightness arts lay concealed behind the slope, holding their breath. In the distance, dust billowed up as the vanguard of the foreign cavalry reached the mouth of the valley. The pounding hooves beat like dense drumrolls, making the withered grass tremble and rustle.
"Release the smoke," Chen Wuya said quietly.
One man immediately lit a torch and swept it across a pile of dry grass. Thick smoke soared skyward, stretching into a slanting line in the west wind, pointing straight into the depths of the valley. It was the trace of a rout—chaotic, hasty, utterly without order.
The enemy formation paused. Several scouts galloped out, circling the pillar of smoke as though trying to determine its direction. A moment later, they wheeled their horses around and rode back to relay word to the main force.
The air atop the hillside drew tauter still.
"They're going to retreat." Bai Zhi's voice came from behind him. At some point, she had climbed the stone cliff to the right, her figure hidden behind a rocky ridge. "The vanguard dares not enter. If their commander hesitates, this whole game is ruined."
Chen Wuya narrowed his eyes. The blood pattern suddenly burned.
He raised a hand and drew a short sword from his waist. Its blade was bluish gray; the night before, he had used charcoal powder to grind away its edge's gleam. He passed the sword into his left hand, pressed his right palm over his