In the total blackness of the dead-end gallery, Thin Ghost Cao’s hands were shaking with uncontrolled, violent tremors.
The scout’s heart hammered against his ribs in wild, irregular bursts.
For six years, Cao had operated as the chief tracker and ranged killer for the southern extortion rings of Red Mist Valley. He had shadowed hundreds of debtors through the wetlands, ambushed rogue gatherers in the scrub pine, and pinned fleeing apprentices through the knees with his brass repeating crossbow. His entire lethal methodology rested upon an unchanging foundation: distance, clear sight, and the calm math of missile arcs from thirty paces away.
In this pitch-black stone tomb, three hundred paces beneath the mountains, that foundation had vanished in an instant.
The loss of vision was a psychological amputation. In the dark, a missile weapon was an encumbrance. He couldn’t get a target. He couldn’t calculate lead angles. And if he squeezed the brass trigger blindly into the gloom, he was. Just then, likely to drive a steel quarrel through Scarface Wei’s hip as he was to strike the scholar.
“Light... Need light...” Cao muttered through chattering teeth, his back pressing desperately against the damp limestone wall.
He had dropped his repeating crossbow into the crook of his left elbow. His claw-like fingers, slick with nervous sweat, tore through the oiled silk pouch sewn into the inner lining of his wool coat, searching for the smooth, stringy texture of yellow magic charm paper.
