Author's Note: Do Not Unlock Yet. Chapter Is Still Under Construction.
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It began as a hum at the edge of hearing and became a living veil. Needle locusts were exactly what they sounded like—finger-thin insects with metal-gloss wings and a bad attitude. The dumb way to handle them was to swat. The smart way was to shape wind.
"Form behind me," Fang said, and let Shifting Winds answer his soles. Air gathered, spiraled, condensed. He did not blow; he didn't need to. He shaped a corridor, a long, breathing tunnel of pressure that nudged the locusts aside the way a river chooses its banks.
They walked through a storm that never touched them. Yao Lin kept his jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped. Qian Bo, eyes wide, kept mouthing, whoa.
Halfway through, the locusts found an edge and began to push. Fang smiled without humor. "All right," he said softly, and bled a thread of dragon fire into the wind.
