Chen Wuya withdrew his hand from the door bolt without sparing the outside another glance. He turned and walked toward the table inside, his steps neither hurried nor slow, as though he had merely finished some ordinary task. The oil lamp had long since gone out, and morning light filtered through the paper window, falling upon the old wooden chest. He crouched, lifted the lid, brushed aside layer after layer of straw paper, and took out a bronze token the size of his palm.
Half of the Heavenly Machine Token.
Its edges were jagged, cracks spreading across it like a spiderweb—the marks left years ago when an enemy blade had cleaved it apart in the snowy borderlands. When Zhao Tianying handed it to him, he had said, "Take it. The road through the martial world is long; you'll need some proof of identity." Back then, Chen Wuya had thought it was a beginning. Only now did he understand that it was the end.
He clenched the token in his hand and walked out of the house.
A crowd had already gathered beyond the courtyard gate.
They were not merely the faces from yesterday. Two old escort guards stood shoulder to shoulder, one with his arm wrapped in blood-seeping cloth, the other leaning on an iron staff; a Qingfeng outer disciple stood below the stone steps, the sword at his waist still sheathed, though his knuckles had turned white around its hilt; there were also three representatives from neighboring villages. One of them held a child wrapped in coarse cloth, its little face flushed and its breathing rapid.
"Hero Chen!" The wounded escort guard took half a step forward the instant he saw him. "The three villages of Northern Ridge have been burned to bare ground. The women and children fled