High upon the nine snow-white peaks of Mount Azure, the eleventh morning since the start of Dry-Well’s Border Job Fair dawned over golden temple roofs, floating cloud bridges, and ten thousand wilting frost-lotus flowers.
For the past three days—ever since young Lin Feng of Courtyard Number Seven had woken up to find his personal servant Xiao Wu and all thirty-five thousand outer workers gone, and Senior Brother Chu had blown the roof off the Lower Peak kitchen trying to boil water with a Fireball Spell—the entire Azure-Sword Sect had descended into total domestic chaos.
Now, at seven o’clock in the morning, the great bronze bell atop the Central Sword Plaza rang with a harsh, urgent clang.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Over three thousand pampered Inner Sect Disciples poured out of their mountain villas and stumbled onto the white jade plaza.
None of them looked like the spotless, fairy-like sword immortals depicted in storybooks anymore.
Twenty-year-old Young Master Zhao Feng—Lin Feng’s best friend from the Third Peak—marched onto the plaza with his white silk robe buttoned crookedly, one boot unlaced, and a streak of black charcoal ash across his left cheek from trying to roast a sweet potato over a candle the night before.
