Wang Chen was still buried in the afterglow of the tower's gifts — fingers tracing the rune of that transcendent blade-skill in his mind — when the air around the dojo changed. Not gradually, but like someone had pinched the world and held it: sound thinned, the smell of steam and old tea dulled, everything folding into a tight, eerie void.
His gaze snapped to the bodhi tree. Empty. No Lin Huang sprawled in meditation beneath the leaves. No Li Mei humming some anxious tune while sweeping. The small signs of life he'd grown used to were gone.
A cold, animal dread slid down his spine. Trouble. It tasted metallic in his mouth.
His mind raced—Blood Fang, Sharp Tooth, some cowardly thug who'd finally found a nerve. Before he could thread the possibilities together, a wet, sickening sound rang from outside, followed by an explosion that shook the courtyard and sent dust motes spinning like fleeing spirits.
