The morning sun had barely crested the eastern ridges of the Grand Desolate Forest. Just then, the heavy hardwood gates of the Gate of Peace swung outward with a deep, echoing groan.
Beyond the gates lay the dusty transit road dropping into the lowlands of the Great Qian Empire’s western frontier. But the road was far from empty.
Lining both sides of the packed-dirt highway were more than two hundred thousand mortal refugees from Camp Hope. Men in clean patched tunics, women holding swaddled infants against their shoulders, and white-haired elders leaning on freshly cut bamboo walking sticks stood shoulder to shoulder in the cool morning dew. They didn’t shout or press forward in disorderly chaos. Instead, as the massive All-Terrain Rolling Slime Barge crested the gravel incline, a deep, respectful hush fell across the entire valley.
Tens of thousands of mortals raised their hands. They pressed their palms together before their chests in silent, solemn prayer.
Many held up small wooden bowls filled with clear water—water gifted to them freely by the safe hall—letting the morning sun catch the droplets like liquid diamonds. Others held up fragrant green sprigs of wild clover and willow leaves. He waved them gently in the mountain draft.
