The formal presentation of a 7-Star Master Teacher sign-off was normally a solemn, six-day liturgical ceremony. Ancient protocols dictated that thirty-six sovereign monarchs must present golden tribute vessels, nine hundred students scatter dried lotus petals, and royal heralds blow curved jade trumpets to announce the ascension of a new Grandmaster to the four corners of heaven.
None of that happened.
Chief Proctor Zhong Shan, his white robes stained with soot and his hands shaking so wildly the brush splattered black droplets across the flat stone slabs, slammed the Great Cinnabar Seal onto the royal silk parchment.
THUMP.
The crimson ink flared with golden light, ratifying the proclamation under the power of the Jiuzhou Master Teacher Pavilion. Beside him, two junior exam guards knelt in the dust, presenting a folded ritual robe woven from starlight-silk and nine-color sky cloud-gauze.
Frank didn’t even look at the trailing silk robe. “No wide sleeves on an active job site,” Frank stated flatly. “Loose fabric near rotating equipment or folding ladders is an immediate snag hazard. Put it in the storage trunk.”
He picked up the heavy brass-bound sign-off scroll, rolled it tightly. Then he slipped it into a leather drafting tube hanging from his tool belt next to his framing hammer.
