Shen Yi spent ten years doing odd jobs at a tavern, long since learning to keep his head down and hide the sharpness in his eyes.
That changed the day a disciple of the Qingshuang Sect kicked over the charcoal seller he had been shielding.
No one saw how the mud-spattered fire poker jabbed forward.
The baleful energy of an ancient battlefield, sleeping beneath the earth, roared from its tip and condensed into a hazy sword shadow.
Elder Lu Ku, his leg lame, stood in the rain. Raindrops falling from the tip of his umbrella struck the flagstones, sounding uncannily like metal clashing against metal.
"Boy, the sword is reason, and reason is the rules. Whose rules are you going to uphold?"
