Blood Without Trace's left palm was only three inches from Chen Wuya's chest, its fierce wind making his lapels flap wildly. Yet at the very last instant, Chen Wuya twisted and stamped the ground, sending his true qi surging backward into the rock beneath his feet. Borrowing the rebound, he leapt half a zhang back. Before he had steadied himself upon landing, sweetness rose in his throat and another mouthful of blood surged onto his tongue—but he forcibly swallowed it down.
The blood net overhead closed in again, thicker than before, its edges curling like fleshy membranes as a rank stench assaulted the nose. The twelve dead soldiers remained kneeling and motionless, blood beads continuously seeping from their necks, connecting into thin threads in the air and flowing into that writhing cloud of blood mist. Three strands of blood bound Bai Zhi's feet. Her sword was already half drawn, yet she could not take a single step forward. With a flick of her wrist, her flexible sword trembled as she tried to sever the restraints, but the blood threads slid aside like living things.
Mo Feng leaned against a cracked boulder, his knuckles pressed to the bronze ring at his waist, a faint glint flashing through his eyes. He did not move, but the mechanism gears within his sleeve had silently meshed together.
Chen Wuya's gaze swept across his children. Chen Xuan stood where he was, propped up by a wooden staff, his face pale and sweat beading at his temples, yet he had not retreated a single step. Chen Yao crouched on the ground, her fingertips tracing through the dirt to sketch several intersecting lines, as though deducing something. The tension in his heart eased, and he murmured, "They haven't panicked."
At that moment, he tipped his head slightly