The dark purple jade talisman flared with a sickly, bruised violet glow.
Elder Cang Song spat a mouthful of dark blood and broken molar fragments onto the frozen slush of Lotus-Prince Street.
His left cheek was swollen to the size of a honeydew melon. Coal dust and splintered pine wood coated his gray hair like filthy grease. Every breath whistled through his crushed jaw, rattling with deep, venomous spite.
“You think you won, mortal scum?” Elder Cang Song wheezed, his voice croaking like a dying crow.
He dragged his bruised legs out of the ruined woodshed doorway. He used a splintered cedar beam to prop himself upright.
High above the street, the nine trembling deacons did not dare fly down. They hovered behind their bronze swords, pale and drenched in cold sweat.
Deacon Zhao still lay unconscious beneath the kindling pile, his chest caved in from Xiao Fan’s single sword-strike.
Elder Cang Song raised the dark purple jade talisman above his head.
