The midday sun beat down mercilessly upon the grand eastern plaza of the Central Continent borderlands.
Soaring eighty yards above the bustling avenue stood the regional headquarters of the Nine-Prefecture Alchemy Pill Tower. Carved from imported jadeite and veined with gold, the eight-sided pagoda radiated the faint, sweet scent of heated spirit herbs.
Yet on the stone pavement outside its towering gates, the only scent was the metallic tang of fresh blood and despair.
“Ten million Supreme Spirit Stones for one fifty-percent-purity Golden-Core Healing Pill!”
A sharp, grating voice boomed down the wide marble staircase.
“And if you don’t have the cash, sign this three-hundred-year herb-mining slave contract! If you can’t pay and won’t sign, drag your stinking carcass out of our sight!”
THUD!
A heavy leather boot slammed into the bruised ribs of a kneeling cultivator.
