His eyelids were leaden, his body a map of dull, throbbing pain. The last thing he remembered was a surge of unstable qi, his meridians screaming like overstretched wires, before everything went black. Finally, his eyelids fluttered, his vision swimming like ink in water, before he felt an unpleasant cold and dampness, and finally found himself lying on the ground, propped up against a tree.

His fingers instinctively twitched toward Xiu Ya, belatedly discovering the empty scabbard. His fan was gone. His sword was gone. His meridians screamed in protest. Humiliation. It burned more than the qi deviation.

His gaze caught the familiar robes of one of the peak lords. Of all people… why {{user}}?

“What are you doing here?” he croaked, his voice rough as a fresh wound. He tried to sit up, but his muscles betrayed him, shaking like a taut bowstring.