Morning light still lingered before the threshold, and the dew on the grass had yet to dry. Chen Wuya was crouched in the corner of the courtyard, mending the fence. His fingers hooked the hemp rope, pulling and winding it; his movements were unhurried, but steady. The wound on his shoulder had formed a thin scab. His arm still moved stiffly when he raised it, yet the pain no longer made him frown.
Bai Zhi stood beneath the eaves, her flexible sword sheathed and propped against the wall. Watching him work with his head lowered, she suddenly found him unfamiliar—this was a man who had broken through seven killing formations in a single night, yet now he kept adjusting the angle of one crooked bamboo strip.
Footsteps approached from afar, hurried and chaotic.
Dust billowed at the village entrance as a youth stumbled toward them, his clothes torn and his face smeared with mud. The moment he saw Chen Wuya, he dropped to his knees with a thud and held out a sealed letter, its edges scorched. "Northern Ridge... three signal fires! Remnants of the foreign tribes raided the grain stockades at night, burning villages and stealing cattle. Seven villages have already suffered! The garrison can't stop them—they say those men specifically strike places with no one around. The instant they see someone, they start cutting!"
Chen Wuya did not take the letter. He first helped the youth to his feet. His thumb brushed the edge of the envelope and touched a faint damp stain—it was blood, long dried.
"Where did you come from?"
"The refugee camp... Old Wu Tou sent me to find you." The youth panted. "He said that if you were still hesitating, I should tell you this: 'The footwork I taught you back then wasn't meant