“Why waste good Star-Silver Flying Swords on illiterate border grunts when we can melt them into wine flagons for the aristocratic winter banquets? Three million Jade!”
General Sima Hu picked a piece of roast pork from between his teeth with a gold toothpick, waving his ivory bidding paddle with careless arrogance.
Beside him in the front row of the VIP circle, three young aristocratic officers laughed in chorus. One of them rubbed his chin, smirking. “A splendid idea, General! Our family’s winter salon needs two hundred engraved silver decanters. Border-grade star-silver takes the chill off plum wine beautifully.”
Up in the third-tier rear gallery, a dense silence fell over five thousand men.
Five thousand retired border veterans stood packed along the standing-room railings. They wore faded, threadbare military tunics stiff with dried mud and ancient salt. Many leaned on crude wooden crutches, having lost limbs to beast-claws along the frigid northern frontier. Their faces were carved with deep scars from frostbite and blade-wounds.
Above their tightly packed ranks, thousands of warm emerald and golden lights pulsed with clean, righteous radiance: [5,000 Border Veterans | Goodness: 85–94/100].
General Meng Tie stood at the front of the gallery, his hand gripping his Dragon-Slaying Halberd so hard the iron shaft groaned under the pressure. His scarred face turned as dark as a storm cloud.
