The iron nails sat firmly embedded in the cracks of the wall, while the faint glow in the floor's mechanism grooves had yet to fade completely. The golden threads in Chen Wuya's palm were slowly sinking into his meridians, three currents of Misaligned Force cycling through his hidden channels over and over, as naturally as breathing. He lightly tapped the edge of the stone table with his fingertips and felt the subtle tremor transmitted through the force-conducting grooves—the entire courtyard's response speed had indeed improved. Even the farthest nodes could react within half a breath.
The courtyard gate creaked open.
Old Wu Tou walked in leaning on a jujube-wood cane, a ragged cloth sack slung over his shoulder. Dust clung to his face, and several blades of withered grass hung from his hem. His steps were neither hurried nor slow, as though he had just returned from a market a hundred miles away. Yet Chen Wuya saw at a glance that the soles of his cloth shoes were worn unevenly—the outer side of his left foot was badly abraded, the gait of someone who had traveled a long distance while forcing himself to imitate a caravan porter.
Bai Zhi drew close without a sound, her fingertips brushing across Old Wu Tou's wrist. The old man's pulse was steady, his breathing even and long; it was undoubtedly him. But there was a freshly scabbed wound in the web between his right thumb and forefinger, and dark brown clumps of dirt hid beneath his nails—volcanic ash soil unique to the Northern Desert.
"You're back?" Chen Wuya asked, his voice low.
Old Wu Tou nodded, set the cloth sack beneath the corridor, and dusted himself off. "They've gathered again over at Black Stone Valley."
Mo Feng immediately raised his head, the charcoal pencil