The gray smoke broke off in midair, as though someone had seized it by the throat. Chen Wuya's hand still rested beneath the cradle, the command of three short taps and one long already spreading through the underground lines. He did not withdraw his palm. He merely slowly loosened his fingers, letting that Misaligned Force sink into the earth like a receding tide. The entire little courtyard vanished from perception completely—even the homespun clothes hanging beneath the eaves seemed to lose their weight.
Bai Zhi's hand slipped from the sword hilt, her fingertips gently brushing the sapphire on the sword tassel. She said nothing, only sheathed her flexible sword, her movements so light as if afraid of waking a dream. Needle and thread still lay across her cuff. She walked over and draped the little garment she had only half-finished sewing last night over the child. The instant the cloth touched the infant's skin, that tiny hand suddenly moved, clutching the hem and pulling it into his arms.
Chen Wuya lowered his head to watch, and the corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
He knew the people in the woods had left. Not fled—withdrawn. Spies of that caliber would leave no traces, but neither would they return—because they had seen clearly that this courtyard needed no swords or blades to defend it. It was itself a sealed formation.
He crouched down, laying his palm over the child's forehead again. Warm, breathing steadily. But just as he was about to pull his hand away, a faintly strange ripple passed beneath his fingertips, as if a thin current within the child's body were flowing in reverse. His expression did not change. Misaligned Force probed in along the meridians, neither attacking nor breaking through, merely giving the gentlest tug. That restless vital