The forge fire in the pottery kiln died down to a bed of dull red embers.
Deep darkness had settled over the western canal flats, with a damp, piercing river chill that seeped through the cracked brick vault.
Lu Chen sat cross-legged on a low bench of stacked heat-proof bricks.
In the cold, humid air of the ruined kiln, his bare shoulders gave off faint, rhythmic wisps of pale steam.
His internal blood heat was stable at eighty point zero degrees. But the prolonged starting of the cleaver’s animal fat valves and the constant mental processing of their journey had left a faint, metal static buzzing behind his eyes.
In the Uncanny world, sense drift was fatal.
A martial artist who allowed the heat of his own fire to detach his mind from physical reality would soon mistake a rotting specter for a passing breeze.
Lu Chen reached into the lining of his left sleeve.
