Three notched bamboo legs snapped into position right on the dark center of the lotus disc.
Kaelen Vance did not look over his shoulder. He did not turn to face the tearing void or the screaming vortex of fire and ice descending fifty yards behind him.
He simply smoothed the hem of his faded linen bathrobe, leaned forward, and sat down.
He rested his seven-foot bamboo fishing pole across his knees. From his cloth pouch, he drew his celadon teacup, setting it carefully on the star-jade rim between his slippers.
The moment his weight settled onto the stool, the focal rune beneath him flared with dark amber light.
A heavy, resonant shudder ran through the bedrock of Moon Eight.
The stone disc was cool beneath his slippers, carved with tiny, spiraling glyphs that predated the Hall of Edicts by ten thousand years. Kaelen traced the edge of a character with the toe of his shoe, recognizing the ancient mark for ‘rest.’
Five thousand years of corrupt officials had paved over that glyph with crimson lacquer and tax seals.
