The dust at the end of the wasteland pressed lower and lower, like a heavy iron curtain slowly advancing. Sand grains rode the wind, stinging painfully as they struck their faces.
Chen Wuya stood at the edge of a high rock, using a dead branch as a cane. The old scar on his palm was still burning, its heat racing up through his veins to his shoulders and neck. Without looking back, he said quietly, "Reel them in."
Mo Feng immediately crouched down, his fingers rapidly working the mechanism's pivots. The remaining tripwires on the southern slope tightened one by one, dragging several fallen logs back into the grooves atop the cliff, ready for a second release. Though more than half the bamboo-spike formation had been destroyed, its buried trigger points remained. As long as the enemy entered, there was still a chance to activate it.
"Fall back," Chen Wuya said again.
Bai Zhi gently tugged Chen Xuan and Chen Yao by their sleeves, and the three swiftly retreated to the shelter behind the rock wall. The children's breathing was slightly hurried, their hands still clenched tightly around wooden sticks, their knuckles white. She said nothing, merely laid her flexible sword across her knees and watched the valley entrance through a crack in the rocks.
At last, the dust dispersed.
Two riders emerged side by side.
The man on the left wore silver armor and a curved saber at his waist, his bearing as steady as though he were treading across an ice field. His features were deep-set, an old scar slashing from the root of his ear to the corner of his mouth. His saber remained sheathed as he moved, yet with every step, fine cracks spread across the ground.
The man on the right was even more suffocating.