The panic at the foot of Ironwood Peak began at dawn.
Three borderland sect masters—the leaders of the Iron Crane Sect, the Cloud-Mist Manor, and the Nine-Rivers Hall—arrived at the outer edge gates in a state of total spiritual collapse.
They weren’t dressed for travel. They were dressed for a world-ending siege.
Sect Master Bai of the Iron Crane Sect was wrapped in eighty pounds of old family tortoise-shell battle armor. He grabbed seven Grade-4 Blood-Sacrifice Pills while students loaded carts with spirit-sealing magic charms and old family urns.
“Brother Chu! Master Lu!” Sect Master Bai wailed, stumbling across the pea-gravel driveway toward the workshop porch. “Have you lost your mind?! The Land-wide Domain Conclave isn’t an academy festival! It’s the blood-court of the Sage Clans!”
Frank stood beside a stack of kiln-dried white oak timbers. He held an oil can and a clean cotton rag. He wore his heavy denim overalls, steel-toed boots, and a pencil behind his left ear.
“Watch the driveway edge, Bai,” Frank said, pointing with the tip of his oil can. “I just hand-tamped that crushed limestone border yesterday. If you rut the shoulder with those iron-shod cart wheels, you’re raking it smooth before you leave.”
