The three-hundred-meter hull of the Taichu Golden Sky-Cruiser parted the mist above Mount Qingcheng like an incoming mountain of solid gold.
Behind it, eight executive flying vessels and thirty-six Golden Rolls-Royce Phantoms took up formation in the gray sky.
Down on the Grand Sword Plaza, smoke drifted lazily from a cracked iron pot propped between two mossy boulders.
Sect Master Xuanji crouched on a splintered wooden stool, stirring a pot of murky water with a charred wooden spoon.
His once-immaculate purple daoist robes were spotted with soot.
A ragged patch covered his left sleeve where a stray kitchen spark had burned through the silk three days ago.
Beside him sat Jian Wuchen, staring blankly into the bubbling pot with hollow, bloodshot eyes.
“Master,” Jian Wuchen rasped, his voice thin as dry paper. “Are the dandelions cooked yet? My spiritual core feels like an empty dry well.”
