The crossbowman’s finger tightened. Pei Jing tilted his head as the string snapped. The bolt clipped the rim of his bamboo hat and buried itself in the hard wood behind him. A white froth came up around the point.
By then Pei Jing had crossed the gap. Mud hung in the air behind his boots. The man began to drop the bow and reach for a knife.
Pei Jing caught him with a Mountain-Cleaving Fist. The iron plate of the man’s vest caved in. For an instant he stayed on his feet with his eyes wide. Then his knees gave way.
Two Gale Burst needles came out of Pei Jing’s sleeve. The man with the gaff was bringing the hook around. At the entrance, the third man was raising the fire-lance. Two faint snaps came from Pei Jing’s wrist. The gaff fell into the mud. The fire-lance dropped without going off.
A second and four tenths had passed since the crossbow fired.
Pei Jing let out a thin breath. His pulse held at twelve. He stepped over the leader and took out an oiled cloth to handle what the men carried.
Beneath the broken plate he found a goatskin storage pouch. It held eighty-five low-grade spirit stones, three jars of cheap salve, a bronze map compass, and four yellow Fire-Burst Talismans. He kept the steel crossbow and the spare bolts.
