Thirty-five hours into the trial, another bronze cauldron at Stall 27 split down the seam with a sharp metallic crack.
Acrid black smoke billowed toward the vaulted rafters, followed by a young disciple’s frantic wail. Attendants in grey robes dashed into the bay with buckets of wet sand, dragging out a sobbing scion whose silk sleeves were coated in sticky black soot.
Nearly half the red sand had slipped through the waist of the giant hourglass.
Half the refining stalls now stood abandoned. Twenty-four contestants had already failed, their spirits shattered by meridian exhaustion, ruined charcoal, or scorched herbs. Those who remained clung to their hearths with sunken eyes and trembling hands, their robes soaked in cold sweat.
At Stall 1, Young Master Orson Jr. swayed on his feet like a willow in a storm.
His fine scarlet tunic was stained with grease, and deep purple shadows bruised the skin beneath his bloodshot eyes. To keep his Qi circulating through the grueling second night, he had swallowed three bitter marrow-stimulating pills. The foul medicine left green residue on his tongue and made his heart thump against his ribs like a war drum.
“Maintain the second-stage flame,” Orson muttered through cracked lips, his fingers twitching on his silver fire tongs. “Seven parts heat, three parts air. I won’t fail.”
