The Sword-Spring River rushed on, the water beating the banks with a constant clatter.
No one could say how many years it had taken, but the sword-intent in that spring had gouged the riverbed into a gorge, cut the banks into cliffs.
When Chen Ji swam across the roaring current, Mr. Liao had already disappeared.
Chen Ji clutched at a willow that grew crookedly out of the cliff and climbed up bit by bit.
He paid no mind to being soaked through — he followed the scattered drops of blood on the ground and kept pursuing.
Only the sound of running water remained along the bank.
From dawn until dusk, until the steady clip-clop of hooves sounded, a white horse ambled to the river’s edge.
The rider wore a white mask embossed with dragon scales and a robe that always seemed unchanged, the color of fresh bone.
White Dragon halted his mount at the riverbank, looked at the blood on the ground, then lifted his head to stare across the river. “The blood trail ends here. They must have crossed.”
Behind White Dragon stood Dark Serpent and Treasure Monkey, flanking him.
Further back, Bright Hare and Cloud Sheep led a hundred riders of the secret service in tight formation.