Midnight arrived upon the Floating Mountain not with the blare of war horns or the harsh clash of steel, but with the deep, bronze deep ring of the Safe hall’s great bell.
Donggggg... Donggggg... Donggggg.
The sound washed across the high stone courtyards, rolling out over the cloud-draped cliffs and echoing into the vast forest valleys two thousand meters below. With each strike of the bell, the loud laughter, the clinking of fine china bowls, and the hum of thousands of conversations gradually softened into a calm, respectful hush.
The mountain summit was lit up by tens of thousands of paper lanterns. Strung between flowering pear trees, hanging from the roof edges of timber lodges, and floating upon the calm waters of the central reflecting ponds, their warm amber and apricot light flickered softly in the alpine night breeze.
At the center of the Grand Summit Terrace, upon a raised circular dais of polished river-jade, stood Lin Xiao.
He had showed up his human form—the eighteen-year-old youth in simple midnight-blue scholar linen, his long raven hair resting easily against his shoulders. In his hands, he held neither a sky scepter of divine command nor a sacred royal cup of gold. He held a simple, unpainted wooden drinking bowl, filled to the brim with Gu Qingfeng’s aged plum wine.
