At the foot of Mount Clear Sky, where the county dirt road met Austin’s new asphalt access road, a brassy chime split the morning air.
KAAA-CHING!
A pillar of golden teleportation light rose through the pines. Dragon runes turned inside clouds of sandalwood incense. When the light faded, sixty barefoot men stood in the roadside ditch.
Emperor Yan Ming stood at their head.
The ruler of three hundred million people had left his gold robes, jade crown, and dragon scepter in the capital. He wore rough white hemp, the clothing of a penitent. His long hair was tied with a frayed cord, and his pale feet rested in the dust.
Behind him waited sixty cabinet ministers, senior judges, and royal uncles. All wore the same coarse robes. All shivered as the cold grit bit into their feet.
“Your Majesty,” the Prime Minister whispered, “shouldn’t we at least bring the Imperial Guard or the Dragon Banner? Must we climb like condemned prisoners?”
“Be quiet,” Yan Ming hissed. “Canglan is sending its wheat south. Our canal levels are falling, and every delayed grain convoy means another restless city. This Builder stopped twelve dreadnoughts without sinking one. If he can keep sailors alive through that, perhaps he can keep my supply roads open too. I need his transport and his harvest cooperation more than I need Meng’s revenge. We walk, and nobody starts another fight.”
For two hours, the rulers of Great Yan climbed the steep switchbacks.
Austin’s road had an eight-inch base of crushed stone, compacted to ninety-eight percent. It was excellent for freight wagons and misery for feet accustomed to silk slippers. Nobody dared use Qi to float. The heavy gravity flowing from the summit already made each step difficult.
Halfway up, the procession passed Grand Elder Xuan Xiao.
The most revered Daoist sage of the Western Mountains was digging an eighteen-inch drainage trench. He wore an orange safety vest over his white robes and held a torpedo level against the trench bottom.
“You call this two percent?” he shouted through a steel megaphone at thirty disciples. “This is one point five! If rainwater pools against the road base, we’ll have frost damage by January! Master Chu will take our goggles and put us on rock-breaking duty! Dig it again until the bubble is centered!”
The Minister of Rites stopped. “The Grand Elder of the Grand Void Sect is doing road drainage?”
“Eyes down,” Yan Ming whispered. “Keep walking before he puts us in the ditch too.”
Fifty yards farther on, they found Patriarch Iron Blood finishing a concrete sidewalk.
The most feared demonic butcher in three kingdoms knelt on wooden boards in a yellow hard hat. His razor-sharp Blood Claws, which had killed ninety righteous sect masters, now vibrated gently over wet concrete. He used them to bring a smooth layer of cement paste to the surface.
“Trowel from the wrist!” he snapped at a sobbing disciple carrying curing compound. “If I find one void or ridge along this joint, I’ll use your hide for a curing blanket! Master Chu wants an even broom finish and clean edges! Do you want our crew downgraded to Tier 3?”
The Minister of War clutched his hemp robe. “The Blood Patriarch is finishing sidewalks.”
“Quiet,” Yan Ming said. “This sovereign has turned saints and demons into a municipal road crew. One wrong word, and we’ll be laying asphalt forever.”
With cut feet and aching legs, the sixty officials finally reached the summit.
They stumbled onto the polished Obsidian Plaza.
Yan Ming had expected a thousand-foot demon king seated on dragon bones, demanding the blood of sixty provinces.
Instead, he saw a young man sitting in a pine rocking chair on a modest porch.
Austin wore blue work jeans, steel-toed boots, and a midnight-blue hard hat. Welding goggles rested above its brim. He held a mug of jasmine tea in one hand and a brass dial gauge in the other. On the table before him sat a small model train wheel assembly and a sheet of blueprints.
At his feet, Cerberus Pug slept on a moving blanket. The hound snored like a rusty chainsaw while lazily chewing a piece of the Emperor’s steering wheel.
Chomp... Crunch... Snore.
Austin blew on his tea and took a sip.
“Ahhh. Good jasmine.”
Yan Ming threw himself forward. His knees struck the plaza, and his forehead hit the black stone.
THUD!
“Your humble servant Yan Ming, Emperor of Great Yan, Son of Heaven, and ruler of seventy-two provinces, has brought his cabinet barefoot to beg forgiveness from the Supreme Master of the Second Sun!”
The sixty ministers dropped behind him.
THUD! THUD! THUD!
“We have committed unforgivable blasphemy!”
“We disturbed the Master’s work with our clumsy boats!”
“Spare our people! Burn us in your furnaces if you must, but do not melt our cities!”
Austin froze with his dial gauge above the model wheel.
He set the tool down, cleaned his reading glasses with a blue rag, and looked over the porch rail at the weeping officials.
“Wait. You’re Yan Ming? The registered owner of those twelve dreadnoughts in Lot 1?”
Yan Ming kept his forehead against the stone.
“Yes, Grandmaster. Those miserable vessels belong to the imperial court. We accept full responsibility for our offense against the sky!”
Austin sagged with relief. He set down his tea and picked up his clipboard.
“Finally. I’ve waited two hours for somebody from fleet management to show up.”
He stood and tapped the rail with the clipboard.
“Did you bring the vessel registrations, proof of insurance, and an approved airspace waiver? Your admiral owes six hundred and thirty thousand copper in citations, recovery fees, and storage. That’s after my twenty percent discount. Tie Kuang can’t remove the clamps until the paperwork is cleared and the registered owner signs the intake forms.”