The Southern Gate of Tianxuan Royal Capital was designed to inspire existential terror in traveling mortals.
Two massive stone black glass gate towers soared one hundred and twenty feet into the smoggy sky. It was flanked by curtain walls built from solid blocks of void-hardened dark rock.
Suspended between the twin towers hung the Southern Gate itself. An eight-inch-thick drop-gate of cold-rolled hardwood, braced with bronze spikes and heavy with glowing arrays of spirit runes.
Below the archway, traffic crawled through a narrow checkpoint divided by brass support posts and iron turnstiles.
Frank brought the mule cart to a halt forty yards from the queue.
He jumped down from the driver’s bench, adjusted his tool pouch, and checked the line.
Dozens of traveling merchants in padded coats, wandering fighters with broadswords, and carriage drivers shuffled toward the gates like cattle.
Every time a traveler pushed through the iron turnstile, a sharp ZAP! echoed through the archway. It was followed by a reflex yelp of pain.
“Ow! By the Heavens!” a silk merchant cursed, shaking his tingling right arm. “What manner of sky-trial is this gate?!”
“Silence, peasant!” barked an armored gatekeeper behind a stone counter. “That’s the Sovereign Purging Ward of the Capital! It cleanses foul mortal foul fog from your spirit veins! Pay the entry tax and move along!”
Frank stopped ten paces from the turnstile, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“That’s not a spiritual purging ward,” Frank muttered. He tapped his brass ball-peen hammer against his lip. “That’s an open ground fault on an unbonded circuit.”
Shen Shitou stood beside him, sledgehammer resting against his collarbone. He stared at the glowing blue barrier.
“Master,” Shitou whispered in solemn respect. “Does the royal array possess divine judgment? Is it punishing the impure of heart?”
“It’s punishing anyone touching bare metal while wearing leather-soled boots,” Frank said flatly. “Look at the turnstile frame. Anchored into dry dark rock without an earthing rod. Whoever wired the outer edge rune array tied the neutral return directly to the load-bearing gate hinges.”
Princess Ling’er leaned forward from the cart. “Master... Does that mean the royal formation is bleeding sky essence into the earth?”
“It’s leaking stray current into the handrails,” Frank corrected. “If it rains, anyone touching that turnstile gets twenty amps through their chest. It’s a spark death trap.”
Before Frank could pull out his tester, a heavy, armored boot stomped toward them.
“You there! Ragged vagrants in the wooden cart!”
A burly gatekeeper sergeant clad in lacquered black iron armor strode forward. He gripped a six-foot spirit-spear pulsing with crackling cerulean runes.
On his face was a sneer born of twelve years of extorting country travelers.
“Step out of line!” the Sergeant barked, pointing his spear at Frank’s chest. “What insolent trash approaches the South Gate wearing blue canvas rags and carrying carpenter hammers?!”
Frank looked down at his durable blue denim work jacket, then up at the Sergeant.
“It’s twelve-ounce denim with heavy stitching,” Frank said evenly. “Breathable, tear-resistant, and non-current-carrying. Much safer than metal mail near live voltage.”
The Sergeant’s jaw twitched. Instead of begging on their knees or offering silver, the youth had delivered a critique of textile safety ratings.
“Absurd babble!” the Sergeant roared. “The Capital Entry Code stipulates visiting testers must wear ritual silk robes! You look like a runaway ditch-digger from the northern quarries!”
The Sergeant slammed the butt of his spirit-spear onto the stone floor.
THUD!
Cerulean sparks cascaded across the flat stone slabs.
“Country peasant entry surcharge,” the Sergeant declared, thrusting out a calloused palm. “Fifty middle-grade spirit stones per person. Plus twenty stones for that old and worn-out cart.”
The surrounding merchants gasped in horror.
“Fifty spirit stones?!” a merchant whispered. “The normal toll is three copper bits! That’s robbery!”
“Quiet, if you want your tongue intact!” an elder hissed back. “That’s Sergeant Meng of the Iron Dragon Guard!”
Frank didn’t flinch. He reached into his coat and tapped his temple as his internal console engaged.
Frank looked at the amber box, then at the Sergeant’s glowing spear.
“Fifty spirit stones?” Frank asked calmly. “To pay medical bills when your entrance gate electrocutes an envoy? Your turnstile has a floating neutral carrying two hundred and twenty volts of live spark charge right through the pivot pin.”
Sergeant Meng stared at him like he had sprouted horns.
“What floating neutral?! What volts?!” Meng bellowed. “Are you mocking the Great Imperial Array laid down by the Founding Emperor eight hundred years ago?!”
“I don’t care who laid it down,” Frank replied. He unhooked a rubber-handled screwdriver and a foot-long copper iron stake from his pouch. “Eight hundred years ago, your Founding Emperor forgot to bond his grounding guide-rod. That’s why your spear is buzzing at sixty hertz.”
“Impudent dog!” Meng snarled, raising his spirit-spear. “Defaming the Ancestral Array is high treason! By royal power, I execute you on the spot!”
The runes on Meng’s spirit-spear flared with blinding cerulean radiance, crackling with razor-sharp wind blades.
“Master!” Shen Shitou roared, stepping forward with sledgehammer raised.
“Hold your position, Shitou,” Frank commanded. “Safety hazard mitigation in progress. Don’t touch the handrail.”
Frank didn’t draw a weapon or circulate spiritual qi.
He knelt on one knee beside the eastern iron turnstile support post, inspecting the gap between the flat stone slabs and exposed soil.
“Right here,” Frank muttered. “Zero soil pushback. Perfect moist clay loam.”
Frank placed the sharp tip of the copper iron stake against the exposed ground between the stone tiles.
With his left hand holding the rubber-handled screwdriver, he jammed the steel shank across the turnstile’s lower hinge plate to bridge the contact.
With his right hand, he brought his brass ball-peen hammer down squarely on the copper spike.
CLANG!
The hammer struck with crisp, clockwork finality.
The foot-long copper rod sank eight inches into the damp earth, completing the earth-ground bonding loop.
For a split second, the air paused.
Then, the entire ten-mile outer rim of the Tianxuan Capital Defensive Barrier shivered.
HUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM—!
A deep, sonorous hum—pure, ringing, and stripped of chaotic static—rippled through the black glass castle walls.
The harsh cerulean glare of the boundary runes softened into a calm sapphire glow.
The buzzing, high-pitched whine that had plagued the South Gate for three hundred years vanished instantly, replaced by a soothing ringing drone like the breathing of a sleeping dragon.
All piled up stray static energy trapped within the gate’s ironwork surged into Frank’s copper spike, seeking the path of least pushback.
And from the copper spike, the ground loop completed backward through the stone floor. Directly into Sergeant Meng’s steel-plated boots.
ZAP-BANG!
The spirit-spear in Meng’s hands suffered a total reverse phase discharge.
A blinding blue arc of moving static leaped from the spearhead into the butt of the weapon. It blasted the six-foot spear clean out of Meng’s armored grip.
BOOM!
The static blast wave struck Meng squarely in the chest plate.
His polished iron helmet flew off his head, spinning three times like a tossed coin before landing with a wet SPLASH directly into a stale horse trough forty paces away.
Meng was thrown five yards backward. He skidded across the flat stone slabs on his rear end. His hair stood fully on end like a startled hedgehog. He smelled of ozone and singed fat.
“W-What...” Meng choked, coughing out a puff of white smoke. “What heavenly lightning... Struck me?!”
The twenty armored guards at the checkpoint froze in total shock.
They looked at their fallen Sergeant, then up at the black glass gate towers.
The ancient runes of the Imperial Defensive Array were now pulsing with calm, rhythmic perfection. It needed twelve Foundation Establishment elders to adjust during annual solstices.
“The Ancestral Array!” a junior guard stammered, dropping his axe-spear. “Its ringing hum steadied!”
“He drove a copper peg into the ground,” another guard gasped, backing away. “With one tap of a hammer, he grounded the array!”
The guards dropped to their knees, armor clattering against the stone floor as they bowed their heads.
Frank ignored them fully.
He stood up, tucked his ball-peen hammer back into its loop. Then he gave the copper spike a firm kick with his work boot to ensure it was seated flush.
“There,” Frank grunted, wiping road dust from his denim sleeve. “Ground loop closed. No more stray current leaking into the turnstiles. You can touch the handrail without frying your fingertips.”
Frank walked past the trembling guards, reached out his bare hand, and pushed the heavy iron turnstile.
Click.
The turnstile rotated smoothly on its pivot, silent, easy, and fully empty of spark sparks.
Frank gestured to the cart behind him. “Shitou, pull the mule through. Mang, watch the tailboard clearance. Don’t scrape the sandstone arch.”
“Yes, Master!” Shitou barked with burning pride, leading the cart through the gate.
Niu Mang glanced down at Sergeant Meng, who was still trembling on the stone floor, smoking faintly.
“Hey, helmet-less,” Niu Mang said, tossing an empty sweet potato skin onto the guard’s lap. “Master fixed your gate. That’ll be twenty silver coins for spark emergency dispatch. We’ll deduct it from your imaginary fifty spirit stones. Keep the change.”
Sergeant Meng didn’t dare utter a sound. He pressed his face flat against the cold flat stone slabs, scared that even breathing too loudly might invite a thunderbolt.
The farm cart rolled through the grand archway of the South Gate. It walked into the bustling expanse of Tianxuan Royal Capital without paying a single copper coin.
As the cart cleared the gatehouse, Frank climbed back onto the bench. It shook his head with lingering irritation.
“Unbelievable,” Frank muttered, pulling out his check notebook. “Town public works in this city is held together by spit and prayer. If their defensive array is grounded this badly, I can only imagine what their plumbing looks like.”
Princess Ling’er smiled quietly behind her sleeve. “Master, where shall we head first?”
Frank pointed his yellow pencil down the grand avenue toward the soaring jade spire in the city center.
“The 1-Star Master Teacher Pavilion,” Frank said firmly. “I need that sign-off stamped so I can buy wholesale cement and load-bearing steel without paying the regional import heavy tax. Let’s get through their office red tape before lunch.”