The scarlet broadsword hummed with violent heat, pointing straight at Lin Mo’s observation deck.
Lin Mo did not flinch. He stood behind the glass terrace railing, holding a paper cup of warm jasmine tea. Steam rose gently into the chilly mountain air, untroubled by the roaring flames above.
Twenty flying swords hovered in a tight wedge behind Sect Master Huo. Each blade carried an elder draped in matching crimson robes, their faces dark with contempt. Sparks of true fire drifted from their beards, scorching the drifting mist.
Lin Mo took a slow sip of tea.
To his eyes, Sect Master Huo looked like an oversized chili pepper that had learned how to stand on a flying sword. Entering someone else’s scenic airspace without purchasing an admission ticket was remarkably bad manners.
“I asked a question, mortal boy!” Sect Master Huo bellowed across the Grand Plaza. “Mount Kunlun and Mount Qingcheng are sacred pillars of Daoist heritage! How dare you defile these ancestral peaks with glass stairs, metal carts, and greasy snack stalls?”
Down on the plaza, twelve-year-old Xiao Shi did not drop his strawberry ice cream. The boy adjusted his yellow traffic sash, blew a sharp silver whistle, and pointed a glowing baton toward the landing apron.
