The central cave of the Old Imperial Mint reeked of stale bitter pine-resin, boiled horse animal fat, and hundreds of years of rusted copper.
High above the underground tiered arena, iron chains groaned under the weight of rusted chandeliers.
Dozens of wide-mouthed clay jars hung from the timber roof beams, burning green corpse-fat candles that cast long, flickering shadows across the dark rock benches.
The tiered arena was packed to the stone rafters.
Tiered balconies carved directly into the bedrock held the true masters of the Upper Citadel.
Every buyer in the private boxes wore a lacquered silver fox mask, hiding their patrician features beneath polished metal snouts and hollow, slotted eyeholes.
Silk-robed elders from the Dragon-Tiger Pavilion sat beside high deacons of the Heavenly Crane Sect.
Down here, beneath sixty feet of lime-washed stonework and royal mint melted rock waste, the righteous martial councils of Gu Ning didn’t speak of righteousness.
