By the fiftieth hour of the examination, oily yellow vapor was hissing steadily through the iron floor grate of Stall 44 and curling around the legs of Kaelen’s wooden herb rack.
After creeping down the hundred-yard sub-floor duct from the front of the hall, the caustic fumes from Orson Jr.’s exhaust pipe gathered in greasy pools against the damp flagstones. Now a heavy stench of rotting eggs and burning copper filled the bay, turning the air inside the translucent barrier into a murky, suffocating fog.
Up in the lower gallery, dozens of spectators leaned over the balustrade, pointing excitedly into the corner and waiting for the sleeping youth to bolt upright in a coughing fit.
“Look at Stall 44,” an outer disciple shouted, covering his nose with his sleeve. “The exhaust draft from Young Master Orson’s hearth is venting straight into the lower bay!”
“That’s pure Sulfur-Cake residue,” an older cultivator warned, shaking his head. “Three breaths of that concentrated lung-rot will blister a man’s windpipe and ruin his final twenty hours. If the Vance boy doesn’t wake up coughing and flee the stall, he’ll choke on his own blood.”
From his seat beside Stall 1, Young Master Orson Jr. watched the yellow smoke thicken with cruel satisfaction.
