The second watch of the night was the hour. Just then, the living world in Red Mist Valley surrendered to the swamp.
At two in the morning, the freezing fog thickened into a greasy purple smog that settled into the bottom of the gorge. The acidic vapor burned the eyes and coated the tongue with the taste of sulfur and decaying organic matter. In such weather, even the cartel lookouts abandoned their posts, retreating into the warm tavern cellars to drink cheap corn liquor.
Pei Jing stepped out through the secret rear drainage tunnel of the workshop.
His preparation was tactical and careful.
His boots were wrapped in oiled sheepskin, the leather treated with a thick paste of sheep fat, powdered burning lime powder, and sulfur to create a hydrophobic, chemical-resistant barrier. His linen trousers were tied off at the ankles and knees with waxed hemp cords, preventing water from seeping into his skin.
Across his back hung a wide willow wicker basket lined with damp river moss. At his left hip rested the Cloud-Splitter Cleaver-Saber. Tucked into his right belt was a curved horn sickle with a serrated edge—the traditional tool for harvesting stringy wetland roots without crushing their oil glands.
