The morning mist over Sky-Crown City smelled of woodsmoke, roasted chestnuts, and damp stone.
At the southern city gates, a merchant caravan from the border province of Cloud-River pulled to a halt. The caravan master, a burly man named Old Zhang, rubbed his eyes with the back of his greasy sleeve. He blinked once.
He blinked twice. Then he pinched his own cheek until it bruised.
“By the mountain spirits,” Old Zhang gasped, pointing a trembling finger down the main avenue. “Am I still drunk on corn liquor, or is that the White-Bearded Sword Immortal sweeping horse manure?”
His caravan guards dropped their spears in shock.
In the middle of the avenue stood Elder Jian-Chen. The former Supreme Sword Sect advisor wore a bright yellow Gu Family apron over his faded grey robes. He held a wide broom made of river bamboo.
With every flick of his wrist, a controlled gust of wind-sword intent gathered autumn leaves and dust into neat, circular piles. He didn’t damage a single vendor’s awning. He didn’t even scare the stray cats sleeping on the curb.
Whenever a carriage rolled past, Jian-Chen had to bow slightly and recite the municipal slogan.
