Three pairs of iron-shod boots slammed into the balcony flagstones behind Patriarch Morvane.
The landing rattled the cedar floorboards under Booth Nine, showering plaster and dried sawdust across Kaelen’s woolen blanket.
Out on the narrow veranda, Elder Sterling struggled to rise.
Dark blood dripped through the old swordsman’s gray beard, hissing where it struck the glowing crimson runes of Morvane’s blade.
“Stay down, old man,” Morvane growled, his Heaven-Sunder Blade trailing ribbons of black lightning. “Your core was already rotten twenty years ago.”
Beside him stood three Golden Core Late masters from the Four Great Pill Houses.
Their bronze pectorals gleamed with defensive warding, and their scarred hands rested on heavy poleaxes wrapped in flame-talismans.
Below the balcony, ten thousand cultivators watched in dead silence.
