Little Stone turned around.
The gap in the rear cabin partition was still open. The faces of a dozen or so Spirit Sword Pavilion disciples crowded behind it, their eyes wide.
"Back."
Little Stone lowered his voice, but every word landed heavily.
This was the first time Little Stone had spoken to Zhou Ye and the others in that tone.
Zhou Ye reacted swiftly. Bracing his lone arm against the cabin wall, he straightened up, his empty sleeve swaying, and turned to sweep a glance over everyone behind him.
No more needed to be said.
The dozen or so disciples retreated soundlessly, deliberately avoiding even the scrape of their soles against the metal floor.
Tan Lei was the last to retreat. Through the gap, he glanced back at Zhou Xuan's silhouette, then at Little Stone's taut shoulders, and gently pulled the partition shut.
Only two people remained in the forward cabin.
One sat; the other stood.
Little Stone did not leave. He retreated to the cabin doorway, leaned against the metal wall, and reached for the hilt of the damaged sword at his waist.
He had picked the sword up in the plaza. Its grade was low, and its edge had two chips, but it would do.
Little Stone gripped the hilt without drawing it.
Little Stone did not know what would happen next. In the Spirit Sword Pavilion's four-thousand-year history, recorded instances of enlightenment could be counted on one hand, and every one had been different.
Some had sat motionless for three days, then broken through the moment they awoke.
Others had suffered cultivation deviation halfway through their enlightenment and blown up half a mountain.
All Little Stone could do was stand guard.
He would let nothing interrupt Zhou Xuan.
The hum of the engines filled the cabin.
The