Yan stepped into the open corridor as the restraint array went dark. Red bands marked his wrists, and the wall still stung his shoulder where the first restraint had thrown him against it. His left palm dressing stayed in place. Beneath those hurts, the strength from the chosen art moved through his channels, warm and clear.
The guard Yan had disarmed pushed up from the floor. His eyes darted from Yan to the broken array, then to the baton lying by the table. He reached for it.
Yan moved before the guard’s fingers closed around the handle. Ashen Marrow force carried his arm in a short, controlled sweep. The blow knocked the baton away. It struck the stone and spun beneath a bench. Yan stayed outside the guard’s reach instead of trying to take a hit and prove his strength.
“Stay down,” he said.
The guard froze on one knee. A red mark showed at his temple, but he had been able to get up. He looked toward Zhao as if waiting for a new order.
“Don’t look at him,” Yan said. “Look at the weapon. You can leave it there.”
A second attendant started toward Qinghe. She pulled the injured guard behind her and raised her voice toward the entrance. “Witnesses, now. Keep this corridor clear.”
