The heels of Envoy Bai Ming’s gold-trimmed boots struck the marble flat stone slabs with a sharp, arrogant clatter that rang across the terrace.
He didn’t walk like a guest approaching a table. He strode forward like a royal general inspecting a captured dungeon cell. The white-gold silk of his court robes rustled against his shin guards. The four golden-armored heralds who had dropped behind him fanned out, their sun-spears leveled at the chests of Su Ling’er, Tie Shan, and Xiao Hei.
Bai Ming came to a halt two paces before the low cedar table.
He looked down. He looked at the steaming celadon kettle. It still hissed with the delicate, floral sweetness of high-mountain peach blossoms. He looked at the semi-clear white fine china cups, their blue cloud patterns catching the morning light. And finally, his cold, haughty gaze settled upon the wide bowl of slow-stewed purple yams, whose caramelized honey-ginger glaze shone with rich, golden warmth.
For three breaths, Bai Ming said nothing. His high-born face twisted into an expression of such deep, pure disgust that one might have thought he had been forced to look upon a rotting carcass.
“Do you know what true immortals eat, creature?” Bai Ming asked, his voice low and shaking with poisonous condescension.
