The four disciples were not idle. Neither was the Tiyanak.
Each of them carried a small firework pressed from spirit stone, wrapped tight so it looked like nothing more than a charm you would forget in a sleeve.
A thumb brushed qi into the core. The device answered at once, not with light, but with a punch of invisible force that slapped the air.
Then it climbed. High above the roofs it bloomed and stained the sky red.
Heads tilted up across the street. Eyes widened. Fingers pointed. People asked each other what it meant.
They did not see what was already in the air lower down.
The cultists acted instantly. Fine droplets, darker than rain. Blood mist, carried on a small gust, settling on hair and sleeves before anyone knew to flinch.
On another side of the street, higher cultivation listened instead of looked.
Cultists closed their eyes and heard the crowd the way hunters heard a forest. Heartbeats that skipped.
