The manic howling that had rattled the mountain passes abruptly died.
Liu Tong hung thirty paces away in the cold draft. His bloodied chest expanded, drawing in a long, rattling breath that dragged the freezing air deep into his scorched lungs. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his left hand and dragged a calloused thumb across his torn, swollen cheek, smearing the crimson across his jawline.
The unhinged, wild frenzy in his crimson pupil began to recede—not into peace, but into a frozen, bottomless pool of murderous clarity.
His scattered, thrashing meridians snapped back into strict alignment. The trembling in his arms ceased. The blackened war-axe leveled out, its broad crescent steadying until it pointed directly between Shaurya's eyes.
"I was careless," Liu Tong muttered, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration that set the loose scree on the cliffs vibrating. "A boy playing tavern tricks with the faces of dead men. I let you rattle my bones."
