Old Barnaby slammed his wooden ladle against the brass railing with enough force to splinter the grain.
“Wake up, you lazy mule,” Barnaby roared, his voice cracking from three days of dry wind. “Wake up before the judges stamp our academy charter void.”
High on the central judge’s platform, the final stick of red incense was burning down to its last two inches.
Barely fifteen minutes remained on the bronze water clock. Across the amphitheater, thirty-nine platforms stood dark and abandoned, their cauldrons either shattered or cold. Only Chief Alchemist Doran remained standing, triumphantly lifting a jade vial containing five Golden-Marrow pills.
Doran’s face was haggard and streaked with yellow soot, but his sneer was wider than the canyon.
“The time has almost expired,” Doran shouted toward the grand pavilion. “Platform Seven has not even lit an ember. Disqualify the White-Lotus slacker and award Verdant-Flame the champion’s purse.”
Ten thousand spectators began stamping their feet, chanting for the final gong.
In the academy box, Elder Sterling gripped the stone balustrade until the mortar crumbled under his fingers.
