Han Yu reemerged from the treeline about a hundred meters away from the glowing perimeter wards, his steps deliberately uneven. He dragged his halberd against the dirt, letting it scrape loudly enough to draw attention.
His robes were smeared with mud, his hair disheveled, and streaks of blood; half from the serpent, half from himself painted across his sleeves. It was a calculated sight, a crafted image of a disciple who had narrowly survived a desperate struggle.
The protective barrier surrounding the camp shimmered faintly, its glow a wavering veil against the darkness of the forest. The runes etched into the ground pulsed with a steady rhythm, evidence of the defensive arrays the elders had activated before nightfall.
