Dusk fell over the jagged spine of Crow Ridge, painting the jagged granite cliffs in shades of bruised copper and ash.
A cold mountain wind surged up from the deep gorge, pushing banks of thick gray mist across the narrow shale path that connected the upper registry plaza to the outer peaks.
Ye Chen walked with slow, unhurried strides along the ledge, his heavy boots crushing loose gravel against the bedrock.
He knew the path was watched.
Two miles back, near the timber mills on Ironwood Street, three scouts in mottled leather had detached themselves from the market crowds to shadow his ascent.
Zhao Feng had exhausted his official avenues of sabotage, and with the public blood challenge sealed before three thousand witnesses, the terrified young master had turned to the desperate butc
