The dawn horn of the Myriad Spirit Safe hall sounded not as a plea for aid. But as an earth-shaking clarion call that echoed across three provinces.
Along the carved marble stone railings and hanging cedar terraces of the Floating Mountain, tens of thousands of citizens—mortal farmers, beastfolk clansmen. It traveled merchants, and young sect students—gathered in silent, awe-stricken ranks. They held hand-painted silk banners, waved woven straw magic charms. Then they looked up with tear-glistened eyes toward the eastern flight deck. They knew where Lord Xiao was going. They knew that fifty miles above their peaceful homes, an empire of golden gods waited with extinction in their hands.
Yet among the crowd, there was no wailing, no wild packing of carts, and no panic. In seven seasons of impossible trials, the little blue slime had never once abandoned them.
High upon the flight deck, Da Peng bowed his amazing, golden-feathered head to the timber planks. His thirty-meter wingspan spanned the entire width of the launch ramp, each burnished main feather gleaming like polished solar bronze. The wind-storm roc’s amber eyes, crackling with sharp arcs of golden lightning, were locked onto the distant ceiling of the sky where the golden rift pulsed with faint, arrogant light.
