Morok had set his feet for a struggle. He expected Pei Jing to pull back, try to cut the chains and lose his footing a little at a time.
Pei Jing pushed off.
In the early days on Cloudford Mountain, he had trained his tendons by leaping up steep terraces with oak weights tied to his legs. He had learned how to take up a load and let it go in one movement. Now he let Morok’s pull put that same tension into his legs. Then he released it.
The links fell slack. They rang against his boots as he shot toward the general and rose off the ground. Morok’s lower arms were still hauling. His right mace was buried. The left had swung too far back to come between them.
At that distance the Astral Bone Blade had no room to make a cut. Pei Jing held its flat against his ribs and struck the center of the breastplate with his left shoulder.
The sound was like a bronze temple bell splitting open. White cracks spread across four inches of black armor. The general’s ribs gave way underneath. His feet came out of the holes he had dug for them, and he staggered backward. The hooks tore out of Pei Jing’s wraps and left long scratches on the bracers.
