Steam rose in thick white clouds from the top of Myriad-Pill Mountain—or as the new red metal sign at the front gate called it, Dry-Well Factory #2: Geothermal Pill & Noodle Cannery.
Inside the main courtyard, former Pavilion Master Yao sat on a low wooden stool wearing a bright yellow canvas vest with the black numbers #4,000 stenciled across his chest. A wicker basket as tall as a horse sat between his knees, overflowing with purple-skinned desert garlic. Every time he squeezed his fingers using the small iron peeler Pei Xuan had fused for him, pop-pop-pop, three peeled cloves shot cleanly into a porcelain tub while the dry skins floated neatly into a compost bucket.
“Keep your wrists loose, Worker #4,000!” Old Guo called out cheerfully as he walked past carrying a giant iron ladle. “We have eight thousand factory workers eating garlic-braised pork ribs for lunch at noon! If we run out of garlic, General Tie says he will eat your beard instead!”
Pavilion Master Yao’s white eyebrows twitched. His lips moved as he whispered angrily under his breath, “I am a Rank 5 Peak Foundation Establishment master... I ruled the medicine trade of the Central Continent for two hundred years... Wait until my Golden Core Ancestor wakes up...”
