The morning sun broke over the eastern horizon, painting the snow-capped towers of Yanjing in blazing crimson and gold.
At six in the morning, the heavy titanium gates of Hangar Seven slid open with a deep, echoing rumble.
The thirty-six Golden Rolls-Royce Phantoms glided out onto the runway in three flawless rows. Their champagne-gold paint absorbed the first rays of sunlight, casting a warm, celestial aura across the tarmac.
Behind them, the three colossal Taichu Spirit-Wing Airships lifted vertically into the pale winter sky.
Their anti-gravity drive rings spun with a soft, resonant hum that vibrated gently through the frozen air. The dark silver hulls of the two transport ships flanked the flagship, their heavy turbine pods purring with the boundless power of one million freshly integrated spirit stones.
On the ground, along the wide asphalt lanes of the Third Ring Road, an extraordinary sight awaited the convoy.
More than one hundred and twenty-five thousand people lined the overpasses, the pedestrian sidewalks, and the rooftops of Taichu Sanctuary City.
There were primary school teachers holding bright banners, municipal street sweepers in clean winter uniforms, hospital nurses in down parkas, and retired soldiers wearing their veteran medals.
