The central plaza of Cloud-Mist Market was packed with quiet, anxious crowds.
Standing in front of the white-jade stage were the owners, clerks, and apprentices of all one hundred and eight registered shops.
There were herb merchants in stained linen tunics, talisman carvers with ink on their knuckles, blacksmiths with bandaged arms, and tea masters clutching empty ledgers.
For forty years, every change in market management had brought higher taxes, heavier extortion, and harsher beatings.
Whenever the Situ Clan held a wedding or Mount Kunlun built a new pagoda, an emergency levy was slapped on every shop. If an herbalist couldn’t pay, Deacon Lei’s enforcers smashed his counters and threw his sick apprentices into the cold street.
When the shopkeepers saw thirty-six Golden Rolls-Royces surrounding the square and forty Special Ninth Bureau tactical operators standing guard, many elderly merchants had tears of dread in their eyes.
“They defeated Mount Kunlun’s garrison,” an old apothecary whispered, trembling behind his wooden medicine chest. “A new demon lord has taken over the mountain. Our rents will probably triple by tomorrow morning.”
“We will have to sell our remaining herb plots and turn our apprentices out,” an ink maker sighed with despair.
