The cold river wind blew across the shattered southern abutment of the Great River Bridge, carrying the bitter stench of burning pine and dried blood down into the wharf alleyways.
Behind a makeshift wall of overturned grain carts and heavy oak timber, Han Ping leaned over a battered spruce folding table, his grease-stained fingers pressing an inked wooden printing block onto a fresh sheet of cheap hemp paper.
Beside him, Elder Mu sat on an inverted salt barrel, his heavy leather apron tied over a coarse gray tunic, holding a thick iron file as he worked the chipped edge of an old quarry crowbar.
Scrape... rasp... clang.
The steady, metallic clanking of scrap iron weapons being sharpened on whetstones echoed through the damp river mist from forty surviving sword masters and two hundred
