Behind the closed doors of the inner council chamber, Registrar Han spread two documents beside the First Epoch Core’s prize ledger.
“Take the easy prize, Master Chu,” he told Austin. “Accept the ceremonial title of Royal Master of the Anvil. You get a mansion, a gold seal, and no duties. In return, the Royal Guild owns every design you show today.”
Governor Zhao would not meet Austin’s eyes. “The court wants a champion it can display, not an independent workshop selling tools outside guild control.”
“And if I keep my designs?”
Han tapped the second document. “Then Tang is charged with keeping restricted First Epoch plans without a royal license. His canal workshop, tools, and remaining drawings will be seized before the final round.”
Tang stood by the door with his oil-stained coat buttoned to the neck. “They offered me the same bargain years ago. I kept the plans, so they took my position. This time they want the building too.”
Austin looked at the title patent. It promised comfort in exchange for letting someone else decide which tools ordinary people could buy.
“No,” he said. “I came for blueprints and fair trade, not a fancy chair. The jack design stays with the people who built it. Tang keeps his shop.”
Ouyang pushed his judging ledger away. “Then we judge the work in public. I won’t sign a perfect score just because Austin is strong, and I won’t sign a failing one because Han wants his drawings.”
Zhao finally nodded. “A public test, then. If the machine fails, Tang’s workshop pays the entry bond and the claim proceeds.”
Tang took the deed from his coat and laid it on the table. “I’ll risk it. A tool that only works when its maker is feared isn’t worth much.”
Austin signed beside him. “Good. Let the jack do the talking.”
***
Ten minutes later, Austin reclined in the royal box with his boots resting on the Earth-Wyrm’s softly wheezing belly. The dragon snored beneath him and smelled faintly of sulfur and wet soil.
Pug lay beside the chair, cracking chips from a black horn.
Cronch. Cronch.
Austin studied Master Tang’s pump drawings. He wrote a note in the margin: Check spring tension. Stainless bearings, not lead shot. Rough casting restricts the flow.
In the pit, Ruan raised his bronze megaphone.
“ROUND TWO, MATCH ONE! AUSTIN VERSUS YOUNG MASTER FANG CHEN OF THE JADE-PINE SECT!”
Fang Chen stepped out in crisp white linen. The Seventh-Stage Foundation swordsman carried an heirloom blade across his back.
He took three steps onto the sand and looked up.
He saw Austin sitting with his feet on a Calamity Dragon. He saw Pug chewing its horn. Austin glanced down over his glasses with a pencil in hand.
Fang Chen turned the color of sour milk.
His hand stayed far from his sword. He dropped to his knees and threw up his palms.
“I CONCEDE! MY RIGHT ELBOW HAS AN INCURABLE SPIRIT-VEIN CRAMP! MY QI IS BLOCKED! I FORFEIT!”
He jumped up, lifted his robes, and sprinted back into the tunnel.
Ruan struck the bronze gong.
“WINNER BY FORFEIT: AUSTIN!”
Austin lowered his clipboard and stared at the empty tunnel.
“He didn’t even enter the match. Did his connection drop?”
Five minutes later, Lady Su of the Frost-Mist Pavilion floated through the eastern gate. She took two steps, saw the dragon footstool, and grabbed her ankle.
“A fatal tendon rupture! The gravel has betrayed me! I cannot stand! I forfeit!”
Four disciples rushed out with a wicker stretcher and carried her away before the gong sounded.
Master Ba of the Mountain-Cleaver Clan came next. He took one look at Pug’s wagging tails, announced that his horoscope forbade drawing metal under an unfavorable moon, and fled.
Young Master Song blamed food poisoning from cold breakfast noodles. He clutched his stomach and surrendered.
Sword Scion Hao entered, bowed three times toward Austin, then vaulted the ten-foot boundary wall and ran down the public street.
In less than twenty-two minutes, Austin advanced through five rounds without lifting his feet off the sleeping dragon.
A blue screen appeared.
Austin pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Pitiful. You grind your gear, prepare your supplies, and show up ready to compete. Then the whole lobby dodges the match to protect its win rate. Fake injuries. Rage-quits. No competitive pride in the whole province.”
Xiaoyao bowed with shining eyes. “Master’s presence alone has shattered their martial spirit! Before the Sacred Spanner, worldly blades know only shame!”
“Quit romanticizing it. That ain’t an aura. It’s a bunch of people who can’t stand an honest loss.”
Ninety-nine royal horns sounded before Xiaoyao could reply.
Governor Zhao stepped onto the forward platform, gripping the rail with white knuckles.
“CITIZENS AND HONORED GUESTS! DUE TO AUSTIN’S UNCONTESTED MARTIAL SUPREMACY, WE NOW MOVE TO THE CROWN JEWEL OF THE FESTIVAL!”
“THE GRAND ARTISAN CHAMPIONSHIP! LET THE MASTER BUILDERS OF THE REALM PRESENT THEIR WORK BEFORE THE THRONE!”
Austin’s eyes brightened.
He packed away Tang’s drawings, checked his pipe wrench, and stood. Sand and dog hair fell from his denim legs.
“Now we’re talking. The crafting event. Time to show these amateurs a real machine.”