The door to the Director's Hall on the fourth floor of the Sunbright Tower stood ajar. Faint sounds of movement slicing through the air came from inside.
Yi Yang stood in the center of the hall, his body slightly bowed, his hands pressing down on empty air as he moved through an extremely slow stance exercise.
His acting commander's official robe had been tossed casually over the back of a chair. He wore only a short hemp jacket washed pale with age. Sweat trickled down the wrinkles in his neck, spreading into dark patches across his back.
Footsteps sounded outside.
Knock, knock, knock. Three knocks, neither too light nor too heavy.
Yi Yang did not lift his eyelids. He exhaled a stale breath and slowly drew his stance to a close. "Come in."
The door swung open, and Zhao Gang poked in his face, which always carried a hint of the rough-and-ready martial world. He grinned. "Practicing, old man?"
"Nothing better to do." Yi Yang straightened, picked up the outer robe draped over the chair, and put it on, fastening the buttons at his leisure. "What is it?"
"Good news!" Zhao Gang strode into the room in two steps and closed the door behind him. He lowered his voice, his grin deepening until his eyes narrowed into slits. "Your methods really are something else."
Yi Yang settled into the Grand Tutor Chair and poured himself a cup of cold tea. "Explain yourself," he said casually.
"What else could it be?" Zhao Gang pulled over a stool and sat down, bracing his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. "I heard that old bastard Ye Yang went down three days ago! The night before last, the Martial Law Hall dragged him right out of bed and scooped up his managers