Zhao Mingyuan, the Grand Emperor of the Tiannan Empire, had sat upon the Nine-Dragon Throne for seventy-four years.
In his long reign across the southern plains, his word had moved armies of five hundred thousand infantry, commanded the execution of rebellious country dukes, and caused entire ages of court ministers to tremble upon their woven straw mats at the slightest furrow of his brow. He was accustomed to royal canopies woven from silver spider-silk, palanquins carried on the shoulders of foundation-stage martial artists, and banquets where seventy-two concubines poured wine from crystal carafes while sixty courses of rare spiritual meats were presented in silver tureens.
Yet at this moment, standing in the middle of the central kitchen prep trench of the Myriad Spirit Safe hall, the venerable emperor felt profoundly, agonizingly useless.
All around him, the expansive gravel terrace hummed with vibrant, joyous chaos.
Hundreds of beastfolk warriors, mortal commoners, young daoist students, and goblin stone-carvers were laughing, shouting, and working shoulder-to-shoulder under the shade of open timber canopies. Giant mountain-boar beastmen rolled two-ton barrels of seasoned garlic paste. Swift rabbit-folk maidens peeled mounds of spicy scallions with blinding agility. And young human boys from the lower mountain settlements sprinted back and forth with wicker hampers full of fresh coriander and red peppercorns.
