The camp outside was silent when the enemy general fled. His body ached where Fu Ling's blow had landed, a deep bruise spreading beneath the armor, but he dared not slow. His light-foot technique carried him swiftly over the rooftops and into the black woods beyond the military boundary.
He landed noiselessly on damp earth, adjusting the mask that now hung in tatters. His breath came sharp, misting in the cold. The moon hung low, silver bleeding over the trees.
A short whistle sounded once, then twice. A soft answering call returned from the shadows ahead.
Two men emerged, cloaked, bearing torches wrapped to hide the light. One of them gestured silently toward the cluster of tents at the center of the encampment.
The intruder gave a curt nod. "Take me to him."
They slipped through the maze of soldiers' quarters, unseen and unheard. The sentries were positioned to face outward, not inward. No one imagined a ghost from Qing would walk calmly through their midst.
