The spear point came for Yan’s chest.
He turned his shoulder and caught the shaft against his forearm. The weapon scraped along his sleeve, missing his ribs. The man behind it shoved hard, trying to push him back toward the bridge edge.
Yan stepped inside the spear’s reach and struck the attacker’s wrist with the heel of his hand. The weapon fell. Before it hit the road, one of the hired fighters swung a curved blade across Yan’s back.
He twisted away, but the edge caught his sleeve and drew a thin line of blood along his forearm.
The cut stung. He felt it clearly. His Ashen Marrow practice strengthened the body through its own harsh feedback; it did not turn an enemy’s blade into a benefit.
“You said you were paid to keep me away from the others,” Yan said. “You didn’t say you had to die for it.”
The first fighter backed off, holding his wrist. “We were paid to keep you here.”
“Then stay there and stop swinging.”
