She could make out Nezha’s figure through the wall of orange—alone and unguarded, shouting orders to his men as they fled. He had not retreated ahead of his troops; he was waiting until the last of his ranks reached safe ground. He’d refused to abandon his army. Always so noble. Always so stupid. She had him. She’d won this game of ideas, she had him in sight and in range, and this time she would not falter. “Nezha!” she screamed. She wanted to see his face.
