Deng Jia leaned on a long staff, his chest gently heaving, stained with the enemy's blood.
Shi Yuan raised his hands from the ground, an earthen yellow glow slowly retracting.
The tall and slender youth flicked the dirtied blood off the blade's edge.
And there were other young faces, some familiar, some not.
Their eyes met briefly with Fang Qingyu's in the air.
No words.
No seeking of credit.
Not even a pause.
Deng Jia grinned, revealing a smile, and waved vigorously in Fang Qingyu's direction, mouthing, "We're even!"
Then, he stomped his foot and, like an arrow loosed from a bowstring, dashed towards the storm at the basin's edge without looking back.
Shi Yuan nodded slightly at Fang Qingyu, as a form of greeting, and his figure blended into the earth beneath him, disappearing.
The tall and slender youth sheathed his blade and turned silently, disappearing into the thick fog in a few movements.
Others did the same.
As if fulfilling a necessary commitment.
