The brand of a traitor was unmistakable, even from a distance. It was etched across the back, faintly visible through the torn and worn clothing that covered the slave's body. The mark signified more than just status. It indicated origin. This was a former disciple of the sect, someone who had fallen from grace and been reduced to this state.
Han Yu's eyes lingered on him for a fraction longer.
Then he made his decision.
This was the one.
He adjusted his path slightly, ensuring that he would cross the group at an angle. The distance between him and the slaves remained natural, neither too close to raise suspicion nor too far to lose opportunity. His steps remained steady, his expression calm, his presence unremarkable.
The distance closed.
Twenty meters.
Fifteen.
Ten.
Han Yu's breathing did not change.
His posture did not shift.
Only his eyes changed.
