Late afternoon softened toward twilight. Then, the Myriad Spirit Safe hall erupted into a festival unlike any the mortal world had ever witnessed.
Across the five soaring peaks, suspended five thousand feet above the mortal earth, there was no room for lingering fear. The gentle ascent, the unruffled teacups. The radiant seven-colored waterfalls arching across the horizon had dispelled the last wisps of anxiety from every heart.
In the central market town of Qingshan, strings of red paper lanterns and glowing starlight quartz crystals were hoisted between the roof edges of stone cottages and the sweeping branches of ancient iron-bark pines.
The streets smelled intoxicatingly of celebration.
On every corner, mortal cooks and beastfolk tavern keepers set out heavy cast-iron fire bowls over glowing charcoal. Skewers of spiced mountain venison sizzled and popped, dripping aromatic fat onto the coals. Large woven bamboo baskets puffed clouds of fragrant steam as fresh batches of sweet pumpkin flatbreads and lotus-paste buns were lifted from the heat. And iron caldrons bubbled with rich mushroom and tofu stew, seasoned with wild mountain peppercorns.
In the village squares, bear-beast drummers tapped out thunderous, joyous rhythms on hollow cedar drums, with the sweet, silver trills of fox-folk bamboo flutes.
