High above the clouds, the colossal right palm of the Sovereign Patron Avatar blocked out the sun.
The palm spanned fifteen miles across, forged of solid golden starlight that burned with the pure, mathematical clarity of cosmic law. Across the lines of its palm, millions of golden karmic equations flowed like rivers of molten sunlight. In the avatar’s left hand, the colossal golden abacus spun its heavy beads with crisp, thunderous clicks.
CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
Every bead that shifted along the cosmic rods balanced the ledger of an entire dynasty. One million beads for sixty thousand fallen soldiers of the Guardian Clans. Five hundred thousand beads for the starving children of the Northern Frost famine. Ten million beads for the stolen salt monopolies and provincial treasuries.
“A parasite who mortgaged his own planet dares call himself a True Dragon?” Lin Mo’s voice echoed through the heavens.
His words did not merely vibrate the air. They boomed through the firmament with the resonance of a tolling cosmic bell, reverberating across all nine provinces, eighty-one commanderies, and seven hundred thousand public viewing screens.
“You sat on a golden chair and called the people cattle,” Lin Mo continued, his tone calm, steady, and chillingly devoid of anger. “You taxed their grain when the rivers flooded. You stole their medicine when the pestilence raged. You sent their sons to die in border trenches, and when the bill came due, you tore up the paper and tried to eat their souls.”
