With a gentle wave of Lin Mo’s hand, a soft golden cushion of Benevolence Qi caught the creaking wooden cargo-skiff.
The heavy raft floated down through the cold air like a falling autumn leaf, landing smoothly on the stone pavement of Courtyard No. 1. The two massive five-hundred-kilogram bronze sword-trunks settled against the courtyard wall without making a single sound.
Xiao Fan and Lin Wan’er stood frozen on the wooden deck.
Their bare, swollen feet touched the gray flagstones. The flagstones were not freezing cold like the mountain rocks of Sichuan; they were gently warmed by the subterranean spirit-arrays beneath the courtyard.
Before the two teenagers could process what was happening, a flurry of warmth enveloped them.
Grandma Chen rushed out from the outdoor kitchen, carrying a thick woolen quilt lined with white cotton batting. She wrapped the quilt tightly around both teenagers’ shivering shoulders, tucking the edges beneath their chins.
“Poor children,” Grandma Chen clucked with deep, aching sympathy, rubbing their freezing cheeks with her warm hands. “Look at those bare feet. Look at those thin tunics. What kind of wicked bandits make children carry iron boxes in the dead of winter?”
She turned back to the stove and ladled two massive porcelain bowls to the brim.
