The second iron-oak sat where it had crashed, its massive trunk pinning a few smaller saplings to the forest floor. Weijie stood over it, the obsidian axe hanging loosely from his hand.
The cut on his palm was sluggishly dripping dark blood, but he seemed almost too dazed to notice.
"Weijie, stop. Look at your hand." Ningning said, her voice was sharp with concern.
He blinked, looking down as if the hand belonged to someone else. "It... it does not hurt.." he muttered.
That was the problem—his nerves were already beginning to dull.
"Sit. Now."
She didn't wait for him to argue. She pulled him toward the tree.
He sank onto the wooden truck, his massive shoulders slouching. Ningning took his hand, wiping the blood away with a leaf.
