Dust billowed and swirled. Flecks of azure starlight drifted down onto the rubble. The heavy fallen stones creaked under the gale but held firm; only a few grains of sand squeezed through the gaps into the tunnel.
Emotion Reading had not yet worn off, so Xia Lun could see Iron Mask's and the Dancer's emotions clearly.
The white halo of reason above Iron Mask's head wavered slightly. Above the Dancer's head, a black cloud of fear appeared, and a trace of awe entered her brown eyes as she looked at Xia Lun.
White Line's spirits had plainly lifted. A bright, pale-yellow glow surrounded her, though her face remained stern and expressionless.
Clap!
Xia Lun clapped his hands, snapping the others out of their shock.
"We're safe for now." He glanced at Iron Mask. "What's the plan?"
Iron Mask loosened the clasp of his cloak uneasily. "Please forgive my earlier offense. Philos Arne clouded my eyes and my wisdom. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Putara La Sobek Delmonen. You may call me Putala. My Fundamental Duty is combat and priesthood."
The resentment had left his voice. He still sounded afraid, but he was doing his best to hold himself with dignity.
"I'm Xia Lun. Let's skip the formalities. Strictly speaking, we're still in danger." Xia Lun shook his hand without pressing him, then smoothly changed the subject.
"Once the sandstorm stops, can't we just go kill all those snakes?" White Line asked quietly.
Before White Line had finished speaking, the Dancer giggled. She blinked and drew several circles in the air with her gold-bangled wrist, but neither Xia Lun nor White Line understood what she meant.
"The sandstorm won't stop before we die," Iron Mask's voice echoed through the tunnel. "The Black Sandstorm is the whip of the Withered