The air is thick, green, and suffocating. Bao Thu presses her back against a giant bamboo stalk, her hand clamped over a bleeding gash on her arm. Around her, the bamboo grove whispers . Not wind—voices. The trapped souls of plague victims Lord Minh Khoi had burned alive years ago.
"You would let them die for your superstition?" healer bao thu tap 2
"This is no natural illness," she mutters. "This is a memory-eater." The air is thick, green, and suffocating