The Grand Martial Arena of Canglan occupied the bowl of an extinct volcano. Its steep black-granite stands held two hundred and fifty thousand spectators around a sunken fighting pit five hundred meters wide. Twelve rune-covered pillars ringed the arena floor. Their protective formations hummed hard enough to make Austin’s fillings tingle.
The Supreme Imperial Gallery jutted over the southern rim on white-jade beams.
The royal ushers had not wanted to admit a man in denim overalls. Then Austin showed them the Golden Edict in his chest pocket. The Crown Prince’s red wax seal changed their minds at once. Bowing until their foreheads nearly brushed the carpet, they led him to a rosewood armchair six paces from the Imperial Governor’s throne.
Austin sat with an appreciative grunt. He loosened his tool belt by two holes and put his boots on a carved wooden footstool. Then he pressed down with one heel.
“Solid work. Good joints. Proper corner blocks. You don’t see that in modern flat-pack junk.”
Pebbles and pine needles circled his toes, untroubled by the spiritual pressure of fifty royal bodyguards.
Xiaoyao sat stiffly on the edge of a satin stool. He held Austin’s leather drawing tube against his chest and watched the guards’ axe-spears with wide eyes.
Pug sprawled across a golden tiger-skin rug at Austin’s feet. A trembling royal page knelt beside him with a silver platter of braised spirit-ox ribs. Pug’s three heads took turns snatching meat and marrow bones. Their happy rumbling shook the silver cups on the side table.
Austin opened his cedar lunch box and took out a hard-boiled solar egg. He cracked it on the armrest.
“Decent box seats. Clear view. Good sound. But the exits are a death trap.”
Xiaoyao tore his gaze from a tall palace captain. “The exits, Patriarch?”
“A quarter-million people, and the whole place drains into eight narrow stairwells. One fire or one idiot elder blowing up his core, and folks get crushed ten deep on the landings. That’s a class-four crush bottleneck. No exit lights. No fire pipes. No grooves on the steps to stop slips. Some inspector must’ve taken a huge bribe.”
Xiaoyao stopped taking notes about hidden schemes. He drew the eight stairwells instead and marked the two nearest the eastern gallery. “If something fails, people need a clear way out. I’ll show Ruan before the next event.”
Before Austin could explain proper stair design, an avalanche of cheers shook the arena.
Imperial Governor Zhao had risen from his throne.
He was a tall, broad man in midnight-blue silk. Nine river dragons coiled across his robe, their seed-pearl eyes flashing in the sun. A century of command showed in his hard jaw and cold eyes. He was also a Late Golden Core cultivator.
Zhao raised both hands. His heavy aura rolled across the arena and pressed the crowd into silence.
Then he began to speak.
He started with the founding of the Great Yan Dynasty three thousand years ago. He named twelve founding emperors, their consorts, their birthmarks, and the exact weight of their jade seals. Next came eighty-four imperial marshals and every battle they had fought in the northern passes. After that, he spent forty minutes explaining the five elemental phases and their effect on soil. He finished that section with a long lecture on the duties of tax collectors and filial sons.
On the competitor terrace, five hundred sect prodigies and guild champions stood at attention beneath the sun. Sweat ran down their chins. Their faces remained fixed in respectful awe.
In the royal box, Austin’s brain turned to cold oatmeal.
PING.
A blue window appeared in front of Governor Zhao’s moving mouth.
Austin’s left eye twitched.
“An hour and thirty-eight minutes? An unskippable lore dump? Why does every developer think players want an audio tour of their fantasy notebook? Nobody cares about eighty-four marshals, Zhao. Give us the quest marker, show us the prizes, and let me get back to my lathe.”
He took out his third solar egg and cracked it on the armrest.
CRACK.
The sound carried through the silent gallery like a pistol shot.
On the competitor terrace, a young man clenched his fists until his palms bled.
Huo Yun was the first sword of the Blazing Sun Sect. He wore scarlet robes lined with golden phoenix down and clasped with fire jade. At twenty-two, he had reached Peak Foundation. The Earth-Grade Blazing Dragon Sword on his back leaked crimson flames that scorched the sand around his boots.
Outside the South Gate, bookmakers no longer took bets on whether Huo Yun would win. They took bets on how long his opponents would last.
Huo Yun had not heard a word of the governor’s speech. His bloodshot eyes were fixed on Austin.
Who is that filthy ditch-digger? Frayed overalls. A yellow crayon behind his ear. An upside-down blue washbasin on his head. And his muddy boots are on the governor’s imported footstool while he peels eggs!
Austin picked off a bit of shell, ate half the egg, and washed it down with tea.
Insolent peasant, Huo Yun thought. Fire flickered beneath his nails. When we meet in the bracket, I’ll burn those overalls off you and scatter your ashes.
At the railing, Governor Zhao finally raised his arms.
“BY THE SACRED FIRE OF OUR ANCESTORS AND THE ETERNAL BLADE OF GREAT YAN, LET THE CENTENNIAL GRAND TOURNAMENT BEGIN!”
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Eighty-one dragon-fire cannons roared along the crater rim. Crimson and gold smoke filled the sky. The crowd stamped until the granite stands shook.
A black-iron figure dropped from the referee platform and hit the arena floor with a crash. Cracks spread through the stone beneath his boots.
Chief Judge Ruan stood six and a half feet tall. Thick scars crossed his bald scalp, and heavy scale armor covered his broad shoulders. He carried an eight-foot iron staff capped with brass rings.
He drove the staff into the ground.
“ALL REGISTERED COMPETITORS, REPORT TO THE LOWER STAGING PLAZA!”
“THE PRELIMINARY TRIAL IS THE HEAVEN-MEASURING SPIRIT PILLAR! EACH CONTESTANT GETS ONE FULL-STRENGTH STRIKE! FIVE THOUSAND POINTS EARNS A PLACE IN THE BRACKET! SCORE LESS, AND YOU’RE OUT!”
Austin brushed egg crumbs from his overalls. He took his boots off the footstool, stretched until his shoulders popped, and unhooked his five-foot Stellar-Steel pipe wrench.
“Finally. Cutscene’s over. Let’s see what this carnival strength tester is worth.”