The morning mist had yet to disperse, and the soil at the edge of the vegetable patch glistened with dampness. Chen Wuya stood before the furrow he had turned over yesterday, the hoe still planted in the earth like a firmly driven stake. He did not pull it out. He merely reached out to touch the ironwood short staff at his waist, his fingertips lightly scraping over an old mark on its copper-capped end.
Under the tree shadows three zhang away, a dead leaf slid an inch along the ground.
He did not move, nor did his breathing change. Yet his right hand had silently slipped to the end of the short staff, his thumb prying open the knotted hemp cord wrapped around it.
When the leaf moved again, it was kicked up by a foot. A gray-brown cloak seeped out from the woods, its wearer crouched low like a beast, landing without a sound. Only when the second step came down did a toe crush a tiny pebble—a sound so faint, yet repeated in the exact same rhythm twice.
Chen Wuya coughed, his shoulders rising slightly as though he were about to straighten up and catch his breath. He raised his left leg and leisurely pulled the hoe handle from the mud, casually shaking off the clumps of dirt.
In that instant, the shadow sprang forward.
A dagger tore through the air, stabbing straight for his back. Before the blade arrived, its chill had already pressed against his clothes.
He suddenly ducked low, his left heel stomping hard on the end of the hoe handle. The hoe's head snapped upward, flinging a clump of wet mud directly at the attacker's face. The man turned his head and avoided most of it, but the mud still smeared over his right