A deep, iron-shivering gong echoed across the Seven Spire Valley at noon on Day 41.
The Black-Iron Conclave Bell struck nine times.
Each strike shook the morning frost from the cedar shingles, vibrating through the stone foundations of all seven towers.
It was the solemn summons that happened only once every three years.
The Conclave Finals had arrived.
Ten thousand spectators packed the tiered stone amphitheater surrounding the Central Dragon-Vein Plaza. Senior disciples, visiting sect envoys, and wealthy merchant guildmasters crowded the balconies, all eager to witness the crowning of the new Grand Conclave Sovereign.
Vast banner poles hung from the black obsidian balustrades, snapping in the cold mountain wind.
Below the spectator stands, the floor of the plaza was a marvel of ancient geometric engineering.
