The Grand Terrace of the Continental Conclave was an expanse of polished white marble that jutted two hundred paces out over the void of the Thousand-Array Deep gap.
Here, the wind was colder. It carried the sharp, metal tang of ancient spatial formations churning in the deep pit five miles below.
In the center of the terrace, forty carved rosewood easels stood in a neat arc, each holding a twenty-foot scroll of shimmering sky moon-silk.
Beside each easel were fine china brush basins, jade paperweights carved into sleeping dragons, and crystal ink pots filled with ink ground from dried red stone and starlight lacquer.
Grandmaster Mo Chen of the Calligraphy Guild stood at the head of the terrace, his silver robes stitched with black calligraphic runes that seemed to crawl across the fabric.
“Candidates of the Gauntlet!” Mo Chen announced, his voice carrying the deep rhythm of ancient verse. “You have witnessed the sound power of sound. But sound vanishes into the wind. Calligraphy, however, is the eternal crystal-forming of Sovereign Will!”
Mo Chen raised a long brush carved from ivory, holding it high against the white clouds.
“A true Calligrapher of the 5-Star rank doesn’t merely write words! Their brush strokes command the deepest laws of nature! Step forward, and inscribe your will upon the moon-silk!”
