Morning light slanted into the courtyard. Chen Wuya's hand still hung in midair, his fingertips retaining a faint, almost imperceptible tremor. The circle he had drawn earlier had long since dispersed, yet the Misaligned Force within him flowed on like streams returning to their ravines, following some invisible rhythm. The child in the cradle turned over, one tiny hand spreading over his chest. A wisp of faint warmth glimmered in his palm, like a candle flame stirred by the wind—flashing out in an instant.
He did not turn around, but his ear twitched slightly.
At the edge of the woods, three zhang away, the angle at which the grass blades were pressed down was wrong. It was not the wind, nor the passage of an animal, but someone deliberately lingering there, holding their breath and concealing their presence at the border between light and shadow. The footsteps were light, the breathing even fainter—but the more they tried to hide, the more conspicuous they became to his now crystalline senses.
Chen Wuya slowly withdrew his hand, curling his fingers slightly as he sank the last trace of Misaligned Force into his dantian. He rose to his feet without hurry, as though he were simply waking from meditation. The scraps of cloth on the washing line still fluttered, and the wind still blew, but he already knew that shadow did not belong to these mountains and woods.
"How long have you been here?" he asked. His voice was quiet, as if he were asking himself—or asking the heavens.
The black-robed man by the woods finally stepped out. He was lean, his face covered by black gauze, revealing only a pair of narrow eyes. Silver-thread embroidery on his cuff glinted beneath the light—it was the distinctive pattern of a Northern Desert Royal Court