Li Ang slowly halted, his long boots crunching on the sand and gravel beneath.
The crossbow mounted on the carriage window was nearly an arm's width, its body dark and unreflective, the arrowhead glinting with a cold gleam.
In design, it was almost identical to the crossbows used by the garrison soldiers.
The narrow alley offered no shelter, with towering walls on both sides and no room to maneuver, nor could one hear if there were people living behind those walls.
SNAP.
The coachman lightly flicked the reins, let his sleeves drape, and turned his head—under the bamboo hat was the face of one of the two Sword Cultivators who had guarded Jiao Cheng in Pingkang Square that day.
Extending from beneath his sleeve was a floating, gently humming hiltless Flying Sword.
TAP TAP TAP TAP.
Li Ang stepped forward, climbed into the carriage, and immediately smelled the scent of herbal medicine.
