Dawn turned the wet shale the color of dull lead. From beneath the overhang, Pei Jing watched the gorge below. For four hours he’d barely moved. His shallow breathing hadn’t stirred the dust on his upper lip.
Two timber walls blocked the thirty-pace gap between the cliffs. Green ironwood and steel bands held them together. Twelve Cloud Mist disciples stood behind them. Their white robes had blue hems and shed rain and mud. Black pear-wood sheaths hung from their belts, with silver wire wound around the hilts of their flying swords.
Four eight-sided mirrors turned above them on thirty-foot poles. Their beams swept the ravine. Anyone with an open aura above Qi Gathering Layer Three would set off an alarm in the command tent.
Fifty-one rogue cultivators crowded into the pen. Some had been gathering roots in the foothills. Others had fled the southern gang purges with their belongings in patched baskets and cracked jars. Mud and grease stained their clothes. Most looked as though they hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stood at the head of the disciples. Three silver clouds on his breast marked him as an inner disciple. Senior Brother Yan read names off a strip of oiled parchment while a six-inch dagger circled his right hand.
