The deep ring of the morning gong drifted across the northern terrace of the Floating Mountain. He carried the scent of roasted chestnuts and damp pine needles through the cool mountain air.
Down at the concession walkway, Lin Xiao reclined comfortably in his favorite azure silk beanbag chair. He watched steam curl gently from a broad bamboo basket of fresh sweet potato buns. In his natural form as a semi-clear blue slime roughly forty inches wide, he rested a small wooden cup of iced plum tea upon his crown, sipping through a slender blue drain tube with rhythmic contentment. Beside him, Su Ling’er sat at a low sandalwood desk, her nine snowy tails twitching in amusement as she reviewed the latest signal logs.
“The broadcast viewership has exceeded thirty-five million across the four mortal empires, Master,” Su Ling’er murmured, adjusting a silver hairpin tipped with ruby embers. “The taverns in the royal capitals are charging three copper coins simply to stand near a scrying mirror. The cooperative team trials proved to every sect elder that mutual support outperforms bloodlust. But now, every grandmaster is demanding to know: what happens when a single fighter faces the upper guardians without a formation behind them?”
