The uncarved edge of the Broken Slate struck Zhu Heling’s wrists with the bone-shaking force of an eight-pound stone hammer.
CRACK-CRUNCH.
The bones of both the Scholar’s wrists—the delicate outward and ulnar epiphyses—shattered at the same time beneath the impact. His fingers opened involuntarily, his golden scribe’s measuring tongs tumbling from his numb grip to clatter across the hard speckled rock pavers. It rolled through a pool of bloody acid before coming to rest against the base of the disabled Grand Borer.
Zhu Heling threw his head back, a high, animalistic howl of agony tearing from his throat as he stumbled backward five paces, his broken hands dangling limply from his forearms like empty gloves.
The spear remained in Qiao Ming’s shoulder.
Without Zhu Heling’s hands holding the butt-end, the six-foot wooden shaft groaned under its own cantilevered weight. He pulled downward on the land-mapper’s torn chest muscles and shoulder blade with painful leverage. Qiao Ming let out a low, deep-throated grunt through his clenched teeth, his knees buckling an inch before his iron will forced his bare feet flat upon the stone once more.
Yan Zhiqiu did not hesitate.
She dropped the Broken Slate to the floor flags, caught the protruding shaft of the spear with both hands, and drew her hunting knife from her belt.
