The sub-basement beneath Classroom 404 didn’t smell like a sacred royal temple.
It smelled like damp limestone, sour dill salt water from forty-year-old fermented pickle barrels. The distinct, stale aroma of electronics that had been baking in a stuffy closet since the dawn of recorded history.
Frank led the way down the narrow, creaking timber stairs, his heavy brass flashlight clamped firmly beneath his chin.
His boots made a wet, squelching sound as they stepped onto the packed-clay floor.
Directly behind him crept Saint Preceptor Kong, Grandmaster Tie Ji. The five core students, all walking with their necks craned down and their shoulders hunched to avoid gouging their heads on the rough-hewn hemlock floor beams above.
“Told you about the clearance,” Frank muttered around the barrel of the flashlight, ducking under a cluster of rusty iron nails that protruded two inches from the subfloor. “Five foot eight. Code needs minimum seven feet six inches in habitable basements. This place wouldn’t pass a town check for a coal cellar.”
“The Lowly Ceiling of Truth...” Tie Ji whispered with deep awe to Kong, his hand tenderly shielding his bald scalp. “Notice how every nail points toward the mortal earth! It reminds us that mortality is fragile. The burden of Heaven hangs ever above our skulls!”
