The winter wind whistled softly through the courtyard trees, carrying the rich, savory scent of Grandma Chen’s simmering wonton broth.
Sixty feet above the gray courtyard tiles, Elder Cang Song and the ten inner-sect deacons burst into loud, mocking laughter.
Deacon Zhao slapped his knee, shaking his head until his topknot swayed. “A moral integrity scan? An audit for an Elder of Mount Qingcheng? That is the most hilarious nonsense I have heard in fifty years of cultivation!”
Deacon Qian sneered, pointing down at Lin Mo with his bronze sword. “Mortal boy, Elder Cang Song has guarded the disciplinary hall of our sect for six decades. He has executed three hundred demonic cultivators and maintained the purity of the Dao! His virtue is as vast as the western sky! How dare a common merchant talk about moral scores?”
The other deacons chuckled in agreement, their eyes filled with contempt for the mortals below.
For sixty years, the 36 Hidden Sects’ Tribute Commission had operated with absolute authority across Huaxia. Every winter, their emissaries descended from the mountains to collect tribute from the Eight Capital Chaebols.
Mount Kunlun took forty percent of the cash and herbs. Mount Qingcheng took thirty percent. The remaining sects divided the rest among their outer halls.
