Chen Wuya sat on a wooden stool in the courtyard, his left hand resting on his knee, the knuckles of his right pressed against his temple. He said nothing more, merely staring at the trace of blood soaking into the black-gray powder on the table. The green glow along the powder's edge had already dimmed, like charcoal drowned in water.
Bai Zhi stood beside the table, her fingertips hovering above the oil-paper packet without touching it for a long while. She looked at the blue-black lines exposed beneath his rolled-up sleeve, stretching from the crook of his elbow all the way to his shoulder. Though their color had faded somewhat, they looked as though they had burrowed deep into his flesh.
"The blood you coughed up just now," she said softly, "does it happen every time you circulate your inner energy?"
Chen Wuya glanced at her, then lowered his head again. He wanted to smile, but the moment the corner of his mouth moved, it froze. "It's nothing. Just a little tired. That thing doesn't recognize people—it only recognizes living breath. I took the wrong path, and it bit back."
"Took the wrong path?" Bai Zhi moved behind him and gently pressed her fingers against the outer side of his left shoulder blade. "It's burning here. Your muscles are taut as iron. You didn't take the wrong path—you forcibly twisted your force in another direction. An injury like this won't heal on its own."
He neither flinched nor replied. The heart-protecting mirror was still pressed to his chest. A fine crack ran across its bronze surface, cutting straight through a petal of the twin lotus. The care she had stitched into it, thread by thread, last night had now been cracked by some unseen force.
Bai Zhi turned and retrieved