The iron points of twelve formation-piercing crossbows gleamed three feet from Lin Ke’s face.
Apothecary He cursed wildly. He reached for an iron razor knife tucked into his apron band. But Meng Shan was already shifting his massive weight. The scarred youth moved to position his scorched body between the crossbows and the stretcher, his teeth bared in a silent, hungry snarl despite the blistered flesh hanging from his arms.
“Don’t move, blacksmith,” Captain Lu warned, resting the heavy crescent blade of his axe-spear on the edge of the bamboo frame. “One twitch and my boys punch twelve steel holes through your liver. This slave belongs to the Grand Fortune Clan until Elder Kuang inspects his core.”
Behind the line of crossbows, Zhao Wuji’s confidence was returning. He smoothed the creases of his muddy brocade tunic, his voice regaining its oily, arrogant rhythm.
“You’re still on outer sect soil, Lin Ke,” Zhao sneered, stepping up beside Lu. “A breakthrough without an elder’s sign-off is merely a secret living disturbance.
We have every legal right to secure the person of a debtor pending court review. Chain him.”
Two guards stepped forward, uncoiling heavy copper-alloy restraint chains.
On the bamboo stretcher, Lin Ke opened his eyes.
