The cold light of dawn crept over the serrated ridges of the gorge, cutting through the yellow sulfur fog.
Outside the northern gate of the Seventh Ward, two hundred inner-sect students stood in battle formation, swords drawn, awaiting the order from Grand Elder Feng Xuan to enter and clean up the corpses.
Standing beside Feng Xuan was the Sect Master himself, Lord Gu Qingfeng, an ancient Early Golden Core patriarch clad in azure silk. His expression carved from was pale marble.
“The silence inside has lasted three hours, Sect Master,” Feng Xuan whispered, unable to hide the nervous triumph in his eyes. “Inquisitor Yan has undoubtedly carried out the heretics. We must take possession of the kilns right away to ensure royal rule-following.”
The Sect Master raised his hand, signaling the gate court guards. “Lift the blast doors.”
With a groaning hiss of balance weights and steam pistons, the twelve-ton iron blast door began to rise from its stone slot.
The inner students braced themselves, expecting the stench of roasted flesh, the sight of cut limbs, and the crimson glow of royal execution brands.
Instead, the morning breeze carried only the familiar smell of woodsmoke, burnt limestone, and warm ginger tea.
