A hiss like red-hot iron plunged into sewage echoed across the stone pillory platform.
Pitch-black mist—thick, oily, and reeking of rotted marrow—jetted out of General Meng Tie’s empty left sleeve. The moment the iron shackles dropped from his right wrist, the seal holding back three years of poison inside his shoulder snapped. Black veins crawled up the side of his neck like writhing centipedes.
General Meng grunted, his right boot cracking the bluestone slab as he dropped heavily to one knee. He clamped his calloused right hand over his empty left shoulder socket, his teeth grinding so hard blood seeped from his lip.
“Uncle Meng!” Seven-year-old Xiao Ya cried out, dropping her wooden bowl of wontons to grab his torn bronze chestplate.
“Stay back, little one!” Meng Tie rasped, leaning away from the child as cold sweat poured down his scarred jaw. “Don’t touch the black mist! It’s Black-Tooth Demon Corpse-Poison. If a mortal breathes a single wisp, it rots the lungs in three breaths!”
Lin Mo didn’t step back. He flicked his finger, sending a gentle breeze of golden Benevolence Qi from his dantian. That warm current pinned the toxic black vapor to the ground before it could drift near Xiao Ya or the refugees.
