The giant neon sign on top of Broken-Ridge Cliff was still shining bright green across the night sky when trouble started brewing on the other side of the border.
Ten miles east of the Great Yan customs gate sat Cloud-Mist Town, the biggest border trading post controlled by the Myriad-Pill Pavilion.
Right in the middle of the town square stood a five-story pavilion built out of polished red sandalwood and glazed golden roof tiles. Even from three streets away, anyone walking past could smell the heavy, bitter smoke of burning medicine herbs drifting out of its bronze chimneys. Above the wide double doors hung a massive gold plaque painted with three proud words: MYRIAD-PILL HALL — BORDER BRANCH #1.
Normally, the street outside the medicine hall was noisy with mule carts and herb merchants. Today, however, the street was packed so tight with people that nobody could move an inch, and the only sound in the chilly morning air was a chorus of painful, hacking coughs.
Cough! Cough! Hack!
Hundreds of mortal farmers, caravan guards, and low-rank wandering cultivators stood shivering in the dirt street. Every single one of them had dark purple rings under their eyes and red, swollen spots on their necks. Whenever they took a breath, their chests rattled like dry beans shaking inside an old tin can.
