The climb up Raven Crag at the fourth watch was silent save for the dry whistle of wind scouring the blue ice.
When Pei Jing reached the summit terrace, the small fire from the last evening was cold grey ash.
Lu Tingxuan was not standing. He was curled on his right side upon the frozen granite flat stone slabs in the lee of the collapsed turret, his skeletal knees drawn toward his chest. His tattered hemp robe was stained dark brown across the chest and lapels with freshly clotted blood.
From the old master’s throat came a wet, rattling gasp. The clear sound signed name of blood entering the lung passages.
Pei Jing didn’t waste words on panic or lamentation. Panic was an emotional seizure that degraded motor smooth speed by forty percent.
He dropped his supply pack, knelt beside the ancient Sword Saint. Then he pressed two fingers firmly into the neck-artery sinus beneath Lu’s left jawline.
The pulse was one hundred and thirty-eight beats per minute—rapid, thready, and irregular. The outer skin of Lu’s face was chalky, cyanotic around the lips, and cold to the touch.
“Heart-artery scar rupture,” Pei Jing diagnosed in a low, level whisper. “Lung-sac flooding. If the left lower lobe fills fully, hypoxic heart arrest occurs in twenty minutes.”
