The sky had only just turned gray-white when a string of steady footsteps sounded along the mountain path. Old Wu Tou walked at the front with his cane, a bundle of coarse hemp rope slung over his shoulder. More than twenty refugees followed behind in two lines, carrying lumber, stones, and clay jars, not a trace of hesitation in their steps.
Chen Wuya stood at the edge of the cliff, holding a metal component dismantled from the iron-plated cart. Twisted runes were etched across its surface, identical to the grooves on the copper tube Chen Yao had made yesterday. Before he could inspect it closely, movement at the mountain pass caught the corner of his eye.
"They're here," he said quietly.
Bai Zhi came around from behind the house with a bamboo basket full of herbs in hand. She glanced at the group without speaking, then hurried toward the kitchen and lifted the lid off the large pot on the stove. Steam billowed up from the medicinal soup that had been simmering all night for treating wounds.
Old Wu Tou reached the courtyard gate, set the hemp rope on the ground, and caught his breath. "We don't know how to wield swords, and we don't know how to set mechanisms, but we can dig pits, move stones, and shove rolling logs down the mountain." After saying that, he raised a hand and wiped away his sweat. "This battle is for the ground beneath our feet—not some fate forced upon us by another."
Chen Wuya nodded and turned into the courtyard. Three modified mechanism crossbows had already been set up high above the cliff, their firing ports aimed at the unavoidable road through the valley below. He patted Chen Xuan's shoulder. "Take them to the eastern slope. Dig the tripwire pits