The iron latch of the inner garden gate dropped into place with a dull clank.
Kaelen Vance kicked off his dusty traveling boots at the porch steps and let his bamboo fishing rod lean against the rain barrel. The autumn air in Seven-Tower City was crisp, carrying the dry scent of fallen leaves and distant woodsmoke. For the first time in four days, no imperial war horns echoed across the southern plains.
He walked into his small private quarters, swapped his stiff outer robes for a faded linen bathrobe, and slid his feet into a pair of mismatched sheepskin slippers.
If a man cannot enjoy a quiet bowl of noodles and three days of horizontal rest after saving three thousand cavalrymen from their own stupidity, cultivation is a complete waste of time.
He grabbed a chipped ceramic bowl of cold turnip soup from the pantry, stepped back onto the wooden porch, and lowered himself into the wicker rocking chair. From his robe pocket, he pulled a small bronze nail file. He set the soup on the low stool beside him and began to trim his left thumbnail with slow, rhythmic strokes.
The quiet, however, was already doomed.
News of the southern gate battle had crossed the provincial border within six hours. By nightfall of the first day, every communication talisman and spirit crane in thirty rebel provinces was burning with the same horrifying revelation.
