Captain Zhao’s hand tightened on the handle knob of his steel saber until the knuckles turned white beneath the scarred leather of his gloves.
The four guard post guards behind him fanned out along the rocky ridge. Their boots slid on the loose scree as they tried to establish flanking positions around the trench. Yet their eyes kept darting nervously toward Tie Shan, whose towering bronze dark shape blocked the skyline like an iron gate. The guards were seasoned border veterans, men who had seen their share of drunken tavern brawls and skirmishes with mountain bandits. But none of them had ever faced a mortal whose frame carried the unmoving, silent menace of an ancient headsman.
“Inspector Lin,” Zhao said, forcing his voice into an oily rhythm of feigned ignorance. “The outer sect’s formation arrays were laid down eight hundred years ago by the Founding Ancestors. None of us living today possess the divine wisdom to question how the ancient masters channeled the sky fire. Those copper ropes have been there since my grandfather’s time. They’re backup grounding channels, meant to bleed excess lightning during summer storms.”
Lin Tao slowly turned around, rising from his knees. In his right hand, the four-inch cold-drawn steel land-mapper metal pen gleamed in the cold alpine light, its sharp plumb-point pointed directly at Zhao’s breastplate.
