A three-tiered stone dais rose in the center of Seven-Tower Plaza, surrounded by forty thousand nervous cultivators.
The roar of blazing earth-fire bellowed across the square like an enraged beast. Thick plumes of greasy yellow smoke billowed into the autumn sky, smelling of scorched copper, sulfur, and burnt licorice root.
On the eastern side of the raised platform, Royal Apothecary Meng was having the worst week of his life.
For nearly three days straight—sixty-odd hours of continuous refining—the imperial court master had not slept for a single second. His once-immaculate scarlet robes were soaked in foul sweat and smeared with black soot. His proud white goatee was singed down to a ragged stub.
Meng stood hunched over a massive bronze tripod cauldron, his bloodshot eyes bulging from dark purple sockets.
“More spirit charcoal!” Meng croaked, his voice cracking like dried pine needles. “Maintain the flame! If the temperature drops by two degrees, the dragon-bone marrow will crystallize!”
Two junior defectors frantically shoveled glowing coals beneath the bronze belly. Their tunics were soaked through, their forearms blistered from the radiant furnace heat.
“Faster, you useless peasants!” Meng snarled, kicking a stray lump of coal toward the pit. “Every second counts!”
