The fifth watch came with a freezing fog that clung to the trenches like shredded spider silk. Every wooden low roof wall, iron fire bowl rim, and willow stone retaining wall was coated in half an inch of feathery hoarfrost.
Pei Jing walked the length of Trench Line Four from the eastern stronghold to the western salient. Four hundred paces of nonstop, glazed timber flooring.
He didn’t carry a torch. He didn’t watch his boots.
His feet moved in long, rhythmic glides. With every stride, his plantar muscle tissue engaged the slippery ice with total, subconscious fine-tuning. His right heel touched a patch of wet slush. Then, the lateral tendons of his ankle micro-adjusted in eight split seconds. He turned what would have been a total lateral skid into a forward linear push.
His balance point remained motionless, as though he were an iron statue mounted upon a carriage gliding along smooth brass rails.
At the western salient, he completed his final sliding pivot.
Across his eye, the slate-grey monospace letters clicked into view with a sharp, crystal-clear chime that echoed only within his brain cortex:
Pei Jing felt the body shift instantly.
