The autumn wind blew down from the northern peaks, rustling the golden willow leaves around the Taichu Border Orphanage.
The orphanage was a sprawling compound of clean whitewashed stone halls and red-tiled roofs, nestled in a quiet valley ten miles north of Taichu City. Five thousand war orphans, whose parents had perished in the endless skirmishes of greedy righteous sects, lived here in safety and comfort.
Inside the wide cobblestone courtyard, three thousand reed mats had been laid out in perfectly straight rows.
On each mat sat a seven-foot-tall demonic elder or senior disciple of the Blood-Skull Demonic Sect.
Every single man had arms thicker than iron pillars, scars running across their weathered cheeks, and ferocious dragon tattoos crawling up their necks. They wore their blinding lemon-yellow volunteer vests over their broad chests. The silver reflective strips caught the afternoon sun with dazzling brilliance.
Yet in their massive, calloused hands, they held no axes or butcher cleavers.
They held pairs of tiny, five-inch bamboo knitting needles.
Resting between their thick knees were fluffy balls of flame-spirit wool in cheerful shades of baby-blue, lavender, and pastel pink.
