The net tighened and the market broke all before the sun rose the next morning.
People were huddled together as they stared at the King of Hell and his men, not sure what he was going to do next.
Their fear had a taste, and Yan Luo could taste it in the air as surely as he could taste the iron in blood.
The shuffle of sandals over stone, the hiss of someone trying to breathe through a prayer, the sharp pitch of a mule's cry when its driver yanked the reins too hard. Fear cracked people open.
He let it.
"Move the carts," he ordered.
Gaoyu barked the command, and the first wagon was dragged sideways, its wheels shrieking. The pilgrims inside howled protest, but no one dared step forward. Yan Luo's men were everywhere—leaning on poles, feigning disinterest, and then suddenly close, too close, their hands calloused, their eyes unblinking.
